Transitions

“Uptown & Queens” – this sign on the subway platform denoting the train’s direction, amuses me, or rather its counterpart – “Downtown & Brooklyn” – since pretty much everything is uptown from me. And that’s about the only thing that amuses me about New York’s MTA. Heading Uptown on the Q line, the train dips in and out of tunnels, sections of the outside world revealing themselves for brief moments until we dive back underground. Eight times out of ten, there’s a delay just after DeKalb Avenue that can run from just a few seconds to exasperating minutes that cumulate into a thick tension of loud sighs, long glances at the ceiling, necks flopping back in impatient agony. But in my opinion, what waits on the other side is well-worth the anticipation, no matter how rushed I’m feeling that day. Stuck in the darkness of that section of tunnel, I’ve come to think of it as the holding zone on a roller coaster before you’re shot up at a terrifying rate of speed and angle. Fine, maybe it’s the holding area of It’s a Small World, the gentle rocking motion of the train hardly a bullet of speed racing you anywhere at any efficient, much less breath-taking, speed. But it’s a ride that, whether timely or delayed, pulses with the city’s energy as it cuts through a wide cross-section of New York.

Since moving to Brooklyn two months ago and joining the masses that commute in and out of the city, this skyline has become a small delight that I relish. It emerges piece by piece as we move farther out of Brooklyn and across the bridge, sparkling like the blue of the East River below. From this vantage point, the Financial District, filled with all its classic images of New York, is on full display. Sometimes it disappears entirely into a cloud of bluish gray as rain or snow hit the windows and you just have to trust that it’s still there. We race with traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge, running parallel to the south of us. There is something pleasing in the way the bridge is superimposed against the backdrop of the city, a balance of lines and energies – its tall archways and the curve of the suspension stretching as wide as the skyscrapers of Manhattan reach into the sky. An arm with a torch reaching far above what I know to be a crowned head, even if what I actually see is just a blurry dot, glimmers on the horizon, coming in and out of view in between the bridge’s cables. And then, when you get to the other side, you’re a part of it all, fire escapes and colorful mismatched shapes, bricks, stone, and glass, right in front of you. Early in the morning smooshed in among drowsy bodies and coffee mugs, late at night when sometimes my body feels so weary that it does not seem possible that I will make it to my bed in time to catch my collapse, and all the times in between, it’s this view that reminds me on a daily basis of why I’m here. It restores a sense of beauty and determination to the messy process of pursuing your dreams in a city already ballooning with them.

A year ago, New York was just beginning to come into view on my horizon, a thrilling idea that terrified me in its boldness and the dreams it fed in me. I was not ready, then, to say goodbye to Paris and the illusory promises I still wanted her to fulfill. A year ago, I slowly began to shift from waiting for other people to recognize something in me to walking through the doors that matter to me, the outcome becoming less important than the ways I fill up the minutes that add up into my life.

A year ago, I started to wake up from a haze, starting the process of letting go of a grief that I’d held onto for a long time as a way of preserving remnants of what was no longer. Until last year, I could not let go of the pain because of how it required an unraveling of all the stories I’d told myself to get through, and a fear of shattering the outer image of assuredness that I craved. Except that I was stuck, so incredibly dissatisfied with my life and myself, taking on all the guilt for being unable to do what I had truly wanted to do for so long, let alone say it out loud.

A year ago, I was sitting on a leather couch whose years had softened out the middle and into which I gratefully sank once a week, across from a fireplace that never worked but whose presence gave the high-ceilinged room the feeling of warmth. Suddenly in the most unexpected of ways, I found myself at the cusp of what I really needed to say.

“I spend all this energy on people and things that really don’t matter, instead of on what I really want to do.”

“And what is it that you really want to do?”

I halt. This is not how I expected us to come to this door. I did not plan on this moment happening today. I back-peddle

“I’m not sure if I can say it. But I know – have known – what it is for a long time.”

“You don’t have to say it today.”

A pause.

“I want to say it today.”

“Ok…”

Words stuck in my throat. Pressure on my chest. Wrestling with the desire itself, as if not saying it will somehow erase it all together.

“I want…to do…what my cousin does.”

“And what does your cousin do?”

“She is…an actress.”

The words hang in the air. I am waiting for the horrible consequences I have always imagined of bringing this secret into the light, and I try to shrink into that smooth worn leather. Except what I’m actually faced with is a big smile. He rearranges himself in his chair, leaning forward, almost excited. Two months in and we seem to have turned a new page.

I realize that from the outside, many parts of my life seem incongruous with this dream. I was the shy kid in school who would never have dared to audition for a school play. I never whispered a word about this desire to my parents, who, despite being great lovers and consumers of the arts, were more concerned with preserving other elements of my childhood amid difficult circumstances, and were just simply unaware of what was not spoken. And yet, the authenticity of childhood naturally infused the way I grew. I think of my mom gasping in disbelief and frustration when she discovered that I’d wet my pants at nine; I’d changed and tried to hide the evidence in my hamper but was discovered nonetheless. Mais franchement, Camille, tu exageres. Spoken with the calm coolness of hers that was always scarier than a raised voice, no exclamation point needed. I accepted her frustration and disappointment blankly, as I watched her wring out the underwear. I shrugged when she asked for an explanation – it seemed futile and counterproductive to explain that I’d been playing a game and my part had necessitated that I wet my pants – duh.

Or as I got older, our time at the dinner table as four, and my propensity for trying to enthrall with humorous stories and impressions of people at school, the usually strict code of conduct required of us at the table forgotten as their laughter egged me on. Tell it again, Camille. Do it again – the greatest encouragement I could have received from my father, the king of Sit-up-straight-hold-your-knife-and-fork-properly-and-don’t-act-like-a-child. Though they never knew about my desire to act, I was encouraged and given the space to use my imagination, to be the storyteller I am in all the forms that has encompassed. This matters to me more than anything else they ever failed to do.

As I stepped out of that office a year ago into the narrow winding streets of Paris that for months had started to feel like an impossible maze from which I could not escape, a flush of new energy bounced in my step and warmed my cheeks in the breezy half-promise of spring. The words of my secret, now spoken out loud for the first time, reverberated in my head and lingered on my tongue. The first hurdle cleared at last, the confident peace and eagerness it had borne began to resist the fear I’d carried for so long – of truly wanting something for myself, of daring to pursue a dream that was fully my own. I felt alive that night, for the first time in so long, and though it would take me several weeks to share those words and that dream with the people in my life, it was a step towards this life in Brooklyn, twelve months later. Crossing the Manhattan Bridge day in and day out, taking in the bold brightness of the Manhattan skyline, reminds me of that feeling that day, encouraging me to live into that dream as it presents itself each day. The start of making any dream always involves a little messiness, a little exhaustion, a little discouragement. I often feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. But I am figuring it out. I don’t know where all of this will take me and have little control of the outcome, which is easier to accept on some days than others. New York and I are still largely strangers to one another and I miss Paris dearly. But I feel alive, more than ever before.

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Surprises

Last week, Valentine’s Day fell on the same day as Ash Wednesday. The former was really just a blip on my radar until the night before when coming home late at night on the subway, I spotted several men with hands full of balloons and flowers. It was a surprising reminder of Americans’ unique fervor in celebrating really any holiday – the French certainly never really seemed to care much for it. I mean, sure, the bakeries will add some heart-shaped pastries to their usual line up of mouthwatering, buttery treats for a few days. But that’s about it. Whereas Americans seem eager to get behind a day marketed to them to celebrate love, the French are more apt to turn their noses up and say, yeah, we don’t need your holiday, we’ll do our own thing. Their stubbornness and free spirits lend themselves to celebrating love in different ways throughout the year.

In New York, the day ushered itself in with another one of those brilliantly blue winter skies, something I do not take for granted after three years living under clouds for most of the year. Overnight, I’d again forgotten about the holiday, readying myself for a busy day of work and class. But the short walk to my subway stop surprised me once again – more balloons and bouquets of flowers tucked in the elbow crevices of bundled up arms; an older woman selling Valentine’s gift baskets on the corner, wishing everyone who passed by a good day. Ok, but this is Brooklyn, I thought. People are just nicer here, it’s like a neighborhood.

As I climbed the stairs leading  up to the bustling, rousing space of Manhattan, though, I quickly learned I was wrong. Despite the lingering winter chill in the air, there was a warmth in people’s faces as they tilted their faces up to meet the sun and to follow the bobbing of balloons floating above the many bodies that crowd the streets of Midtown on a daily basis. Everywhere I turned, I spotted bundles of flowers and other cheesy gifts pertaining to the holiday. People rushing out on their coffee break, business people walking swiftly with their phone glued to their ear, tourists milling about – the usual Manhattan mid-week scene pressed on, just with these sweet accessories in tow. Call it reverse culture shock if you want, but I found these small gestures in the midst of the tornado of life that sweeps pell-mell across the city to be endearing.

Equal to this astonishment was the prevalence of the cross marked in ashes on foreheads of every shade, age, and profession. Again, it was just something I’d never seen before – when you live in the suburbs and drive everywhere, parts of your life remain very separate from the rest. The sliver of the population you come into contact with is narrow. Then, in Paris, where religious markings of any kind in the public sphere are wrapped up in a long history of tension and resentment, such an overt declaration of contemporary Christian faith is pretty absent. But it was an unexpected and meaningful representation to me of just how wide the net of Christ’s love is, and how even in the busiest places, people are drawn to what is greater than themselves.

On this island where people come from all over the world, we all struggle through this life to different and varying degrees against limitations beyond our control, hungry to find and live within our purpose. People work so hard here and with a conviction that it’s worth it, in a way that is more visible than anywhere I’ve ever lived, everyone chasing something while grasping onto what little space, air, energy, time, and ideas they have left for themselves. In New York, you don’t have to pretend for the sake of social graces that you don’t want something out of life. And yet, that sometimes gruff at best, no-time-to-catch-your-breath pace of life, and toughness that encompasses what it means to survive in New York runs only skin deep, it would seem. This tough exterior protects from the stinging disappointments of life, the exhausting antics of city living. But even so, there is always time for love, from its smallest gestures in the form of a holiday to what is far beyond our realm of comprehension. New Yorkers know to grasp on to its many forms in order to survive.

the story of one ball of yarn

On a recent trip home, I decided it was time to clear out the vast array of trinkets and objects I enjoyed collecting and displaying on my shelves growing up. Yes, I know this probably should have happened a long time ago, but when your family has lived in the same house for your entire life, things have a way of accumulating – each item has its own spot and there is never any need to disrupt that. I guess I have always been rather sentimental, whether by nature or nurture, I’m not sure. I certainly had a lot to be nostalgic about from a young age – early years I wish I remembered more clearly when health, youth, innocence and long thick black hair seemed to flourish without much effort. Holding on to the bits and bobs that pass through your life, finding the glittering objects that light up your eyes for a moment, is sometimes easier than finding what you need from the universe and making it last. I wanted to line them up on my windowsill and along my bookshelves to run my fingers over and remember that time I laughed, I won that award, I spent the day with that person, I went to that place, or was asked to dance by that boy at that dance – every object a bridge back to another time.

Now, as a child, I always dreamed of living in France and other faraway places. What I could not have anticipated in following that path is the sweetness of going through these treasures after being away from home for so long. This “clutter” I’d so preciously preserved sat in my plain sight for many years beyond its value and I had stopped looking at it. My time away made these objects new again and stories I had left behind long ago came back to mind. So I decided, oh what the hell, I’ll just keep them all!

Just kidding.

Here is a non-exhaustive list of what I found: pieces of mica gathered on our gravel road, shark teeth carefully hunted for in the rock pile behind the elementary school. Sea shells gathered from beaches all along the Outer Banks. Clay beads from a local craft store my mother and I used to wander through together. Boxes of every shape and size from different parts of the world, one filled with my baby teeth. My YMCA name tag with grit clinging to the back left over from one sweltering, exhausting summer. Porcelain animal figurines I so loved as a child. A handmade rosary given to me at my confirmation. Paper cranes from when I folded a thousand of them to help a friend win tickets to the UNC-Duke basketball game one year. The P-52 airplane I’m sure I coerced my brother into giving me in some shady deal, possibly involving gambling his toys away in a game of chess I knew I would win (no longer true today), or maybe breaking off the front propellers in an act comparable to licking the last slice of pizza so he wouldn’t want it anymore, anyway – a nice reminder of how when it came to being an older sister, I was not above a lot things.

But the knickknack that caused me to laugh the most and reflect on who I was as a child was a multi-colored ball of yarn, actually made up of a bunch of braided sections tied together at the ends. It was hiding in a drawer where I’m not sure I’d touched it since the third grade. For whatever reason, that was the year I decided I was going to accomplish what no one had ever done…braid the world’s longest braid. Yes, you read that correctly. I was convinced that this would be a meaningful contribution to the world and that upon its completion, I would have achieved the pinnacle of [eight-year-old] success – an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records! I’m pretty sure this was the year I learned how to braid my own hair, so I guess I was just transferring this new skill to a larger scale. What is even funnier to me is that I was able to convince my best childhood friends to get behind this project – which honestly probably only lasted for two weeks. But during that time, we sat as quietly as four elementary-aged kids can be expected to, braiding pieces of yarn together.

Clearly, we did not get very far (see photo below), and soon enough, I abandoned this dream. I went on to the next one that popped into my head and pursued it with the same headstrong energy and determination I seem to have always had. Because I was never content to sit around idly and do nothing, always needing a project, even if it was just reading a book all day. I had a lot of ideas. In reminiscing over dinner with my brother and these  friends who participated in the short-lived Longest Braid project, they joked about how my line growing up was, “guys, I have an idea.” And how there was usually well over a 50 percent chance that it was actually a terrible idea that would either lead us to getting in trouble, getting in a fight, getting very wet, and/or lost. For a full list of “Camille’s Great Ideas”, please refer to my brother who will be happy to share the list he’s compiling. For the record, though, they were always willing participants! So there.

As I stood in my room remembering the story of this useless ball of yarn, I found myself a little enchanted with the girl I used to be. For a long time, I believed that the qualities and stories that make up who I am were not good enough, an impediment to becoming the person I wanted to be. I was too shy, I was too loud, I cried too easily, I cared too much about school, my family wasn’t rich enough, I wasn’t interested in the right things. I pursued this idea that to grow up into an adult, it was necessary to leave behind the person I was as a child and the parts of myself I learned not to like. To even recognize this self-diminution has taken a lot of time and effort, and to unlearn it is a daily process, for all of us.

Those colorful fibers intertwined into a ball of yarn, how I pulled this idea out from the sparks that fly when what is in the moment rubs against the forces of creativity, reminded me of how I always wanted to be someone. I wanted to do something big that mattered beyond the narrow scope of a day, taking whatever the day had given me and running with it. No one taught me how to be that way, though there are some who have given me the space to do that more than others. Somewhere along the way, though, I began to confuse ambition and big dreams as only mattering if you set records, achieved stardom, or were recognized for your achievements – it was about being the youngest, the first, or the best.

In New York City, where people come to pursue their dreams and claim a piece of the vast opportunity for which this city has been celebrated across generations and continents, it feels as though you truly can be anyone you want. But what I have learned through much trial and error is that I can reinvent myself in a hundred different ways, molding myself into what is more acceptable or easier, and it still won’t be as satisfying as the slow process of growing into who I already am – the girl with a lot ideas and a mischievous side, who is very sensitive but strong-willed, and who could usually do with a little more patience. I don’t want to just be ‘someone’ anymore; I want to be me, whatever that means in each phase of my life. It is harder to embrace the sharp with the soft, but easier to set aside what I cannot control and feel satisfied with the pursuit of big dreams at the end of each day, no matter the outcome. The essence of who we are, hidden away in rooms filled with rocks, airplanes, porcelain figurines, and maybe one long-ish braid wound into a ball, that we may only visit in our minds, will carry us further than what entices us with the promise of making us more likeable, beautiful, or right. Learn not to trade any part of yourself for anything in the world. That is my dream beyond anything else.

ball of thread

Small Steps

Have you ever had a dream that seemed so crazy and unattainable that you couldn’t even say it out loud? Have you then woken up one morning to discover that suddenly, you are living in that dream, standing at the beginning of the path that might lead you there, and surely will lead you somewhere new and different? This is what waking up in New York City every morning has been like for me, Manhattan’s skyline greeting me every morning from the living room window. For the first few days, I couldn’t stop staring at this jigsaw of skyscrapers, watching how the light illuminates its industrial palette of shiny glass, steel and stone as the sun shifts across it, how even when the outline of buildings disappears into the night sky, Manhattan retains its mythical shape as windows light up and towers glow.

I am here. How did that happen? I keep asking myself. I went from knowing a city like the back of my hand, navigating life there with ease, to relying on a map and my sense of direction in order to get anywhere, and accepting that I’ll have to get lost several times before it all falls into place under my feet. From having different groups of friends in different places, communities where I felt I belonged, to knowing a total of eight people in a city of 8.5 million people. From having family just a thirty-minute train ride away to the closest family being five hundred miles away. From soaking in familiar wonder and beauty to swiveling my head around in a hundred directions every time I leave the apartment, constantly enthralled with the newness, the Americanness, and the vastness of my new home. I had a life in Paris – a good life – one where I was comfortable and finally feeling at peace. In the weeks leading up to the move, I would sit on my bed at the end of each day, my apartment reflecting less and less of my life and becoming more and more like the white slate it was when I first moved in, and wonder why I was doing this at all. Everything’s great now, I could stay here longer. Why do I need to uproot my life?! I asked myself this question a lot, as well as the hundreds of other questions that accompany the unknown.

And then the day arrived. After many goodbye dinners, cups of coffee in my favorite places, wines and desserts, hugs and tears, it had finally sunk in that I was leaving. It was time to momentarily say goodbye to France, this land and culture that will forever make up half of me.

“So this is it. You’re leaving for good,” my grandmother said rather stiffly at lunch that day, hours before my flight, just barely masking the sad despair of uncertainty that comes with every goodbye. She would not look me in the eye. And in her gruffness, I suddenly remembered all the other goodbyes, at the end of every summer as a child when the two months with my grandparents would come to an end and I’d have to leave one place that felt so much like home to go to another place that was home. The bittersweet relief of sending rambunctious grandchildren home mixed with the sadness of a ten-month absence until the next year always hung in the air on those car rides to the airport.

“It’s never for good. We’ve done this before, remember? We’re good at this, we know how to do this,” I reminded her gently. “I’ve always come back; I always will.” I hoped this truth would be as comforting to her as it is to me.

As I boarded the plane, I understood that I was leaving but the fact that I’d soon be living in New York still remained hazy. Aside from the address of my friends’ apartment I had saved in my phone, I had no bearings to latch onto. I would guess that almost everyone who moves to New York City to chase their dreams imagines that their entrance will be magical. We think THIS is what’s important, imagining the bright lights splaying out beneath us to make way for our arrival. I wanted to walk off the plane glowing with confidence and excitement as I greeted the first moments of my new life here.

However, it shouldn’t be a surprise to learn that this is NOT how I marched off the plane. I was tired, hungry, and grumpy after seven hours spent sitting in the middle seat of the middle aisle between two men snoring in my face. We descended into a cloud of fog and rain that completely obscured any clear view of the city lit up at night. As I stepped off the plane and made my way through the airport, the only thing I felt besides the cramp in my leg was fear. Businessmen sailed past me, large-print ads in English (English!), grabbed my eyes at every turn, and people cheerfully rushed into the arms of those waiting to be reunited with them. America – it was much to take in and I was being swept into it all at once. Panic squeezed my chest and my eyes began to well. This was a mistake.

The good thing about being young with no money and transatlantic travel is that it makes it pretty impractical to just turn right around and fly back to Paris. Lucky me! The only thing to really do was to keep going. Outside the airport, New York loomed as this big scary intimidating question mark. But I was here, now, and couldn’t hide in the airport forever. New York had to be broken down into small, manageable steps. Rent a trolley, collect my luggage, borrow someone’s phone to call my friends, find a taxi stand, wait in line until it was my turn, and not worry too much about whether I was doing it the right or wrong way. I’d figure it out!

There is something to be said for showing up somewhere you’re unfamiliar with and having to trust other people to help you find your way. It really forces you to let go of any need to control and simply rely on your instincts and put your faith in good people. I’ve experienced this over and over again while traveling alone, but have found that I always have to re-learn it. By the time I got a taxi, it was 9pm and any bearings I may have had from my previous brief stay in New York were totally erased by the darkness and the prevalence of Jersey license plates. Was this taxi driver taking me to Jersey?!?! That is not where I am going! my panicked, jet lagged inner voice was shouting, as though I would have a better idea of how to get to Queens than this man. I had to remind myself to breathe and resist the urge to remind him of where I wanted to go.

Again, the universe (or whatever you believe in) intervened to distract me from my fear. Only Americans (of which I am half, I do acknowledge) would see fit to install a TV screen barely a foot away from your face in the back of a taxi. Which means that maybe in fifty years, the French will decide to do the same thing. You know, so you can get all caught up on your local news and the weather report right when you probably have a million other things on your mind. I did not fully appreciate the beauty of American inventiveness until an infomercial on how to make lasagna in a bundt cake mold graced my screen. The part of me that is French watched in horror and disgust as something resembling a dense dumpling-colored jello was served up like slices of cake. But my rustier American side watched in fascination, applauding the ingenuity and not bothering to wonder how this improved the dish at all. Yes, this was my first re-encounter with all that makes America great.

As you can probably guess, the taxi driver did not kidnap me or take me to Jersey. I arrived at my friends’ apartment with little trouble other than hauling an enormous suitcase up a fourth floor walk-up. I’ve spent the past two weeks adjusting to the rhythms of New York, re-connecting with friends I haven’t seen in a long time, and tackling the long list of things that have to be done in order to start a life in a new place. Everything is new, exciting, and a little bit scary, but at night I’m able to fall asleep appreciating the fact that I am here. That a year ago, this all felt so impossible and out of reach. That three months ago, I literally trembled as I clicked the button to buy my plane ticket. All the small choices have added up to the big ones, have helped me embrace the uncertainty and trust that whatever lies behind it will lead me somewhere. I am seeking out my purpose but allowing life to unfold. Even if it leads me to making bundt cake lasagna.

Letter to an Asshole

Dear Asshole,

Yeah, you know who you are. How could you not? You avoid me at all costs because I have become a very inconvenient part of your history. And I will admit that in the months that have followed the end of our strange union, I have also done my best to avoid running into you, steering clear of certain streets where you may be lurking and startling when someone resembling you comes into my field of vision. On the rare occasions when our paths have crossed, all the blood in my body has rushed to my head as I march straight ahead, hoping that you’ll notice how different I am from when you knew me, how much stronger and wiser I have become. I have wondered what you think of me still, how you place me in the story of your life. Before I can stop them, sound bites of your voice float into my head, the meanness and callousness that rolled off your tongue so easily. The way you always used my words against me. Your angry pride, the way you wore it on you like cologne, washes back over me, a visceral memory of the desperation, the rage, the guilt, the shame, and the euphoria you provoked in me.

You kept me a secret, which has made me afraid of what others would think of me if they were to find out. You have done everything you possibly could to erase me from your life, to pretend like I never existed, because I never really mattered to you in the first place. We’ve been finished for long enough for me to be able to bask in the joy of being free of you, to crack jokes with friends and laugh at my mistakes, for days to go by without you ever popping up in my thoughts. But to truly be free of your power over me, I must stop letting your rules define how I think about our relationship. Without fully realizing it, I have been holding all the mistakes I made, all the signs I chose to ignore, against myself. How could I have fallen for an asshole like you?! I have beaten myself up over this question and the position you put me in, because I am a sensitive and empathetic human being, and I care about how my actions affect other people. But I’ve been judging myself as though I were the only factor in the equation, as though you didn’t make choices, too. I have taken on all the blame because you refuse to take any responsibility for your actions.

But that is not my job; my job over the past few months has been to understand myself better and what led me into your arms, to identify why I believed I deserved so little. And I have done that – in therapy, through self-reflection, and in having tough conversations about love, loss and pain with people I trust. I understand who I was when I met you – how I thought you would help heal the wounds of the past, how it felt good to feel wanted. And then how I wanted my care to make you better. I understand that the moments when I saw so much good in you were a reflection of what I wanted for you, but that for you, goodness runs shallow because you yourself do not understand what it is. And I think I am starting to understand that what makes it possible to move on from experiences like this is by appreciating what I have gained from knowing that kind of pain. First you have to get through the pain itself, learning to tend to your heart and then working through it so you can claim it as your own. Sometimes it still hurts to remember. But I’ve realized this is because I hurt for that young woman that I was – desperately looking for a soft place to land and feeling every cold stare, cutting remark, or blasé dismissal as a personal failure – and not because I am still hurt or damaged by the things you said and did. And if I can hurt for that woman, I can also celebrate for her, for the long path she’s traveled and the things she gained along the way. I have grown so much since then and I am so far beyond your reach of influence. I have healed, and though right now you seem like a pretty lost cause, I hope that one day you might heal, too.

So I have done the hard work. I have taken responsibility for my actions, dealing with the consequences of my decisions. I no longer need to spend an ounce of my energy feeling bad for the choices I made. You will continue to try and erase me from your existence, a little side note in your journey, a headache you’d like to forget. And that’s ok – I can’t control what you think of me. But you were never a sidebar in my life, no secret of mine. Because the truth is that you have been an important part of my journey to becoming who I am today. Without knowing you, I might still be that woman seeking validation from others, living life based on what others want me to be and limiting my choices out of fear of what people will think of me. You have taught me how much I am worth, giving me a deeper respect for my thoughts, feelings, and opinions. I can now better recognize what true kindness looks like, how unselfish love should be. I am sorry you do not know what love is, but I’m not sorry I had to learn what it is not from you. So thank you, dear Asshole, for being such an asshole. I regret nothing and I am not ashamed.

F*#% You Very Much,
Not Your Dirty Little Secret

Prideful Pain & Healing Conversations

A few months ago, in the midst of probably the most difficult time in my life emotionally, my best friend from childhood, a girl who has been by my side since we were three years-old, reached out to me, wondering if we could plan a trip together in Europe. A year before, we had talked about her coming to visit me in Paris for her 25th birthday and we had both been excited about the idea. Now she wanted to talk to me about dates and logistics. When I read her message, my heart sunk, knowing I just was not in a place where I could open my home or my life to her at that time.

So I sent her a message telling her the trip just wouldn’t be possible, that I was not doing very well and just needed some time to myself. I clicked send, filled with an overwhelming feeling of hot shame; I was letting her down as a friend and I felt like a failure just as I was failing in all the other places in my life. When I received the notification of her reply, I ignored it, leaving the message unread. I was so afraid of what she would say, unable to face what I thought at the very least, would be disappointment and at the most, hatred.

A few weeks ago, while sorting through my messages, I fell upon her unopened one. After months of sorting through a lot of emotions, it felt like it was time to open it. I knew I could handle whatever was inside, knew I owed it to her to read her words. I took a deep breath and clicked on the message.

“I love you. You are strong. To me, you are irreplaceable. I can leave you alone as long as you promise to tell me when to not leave you alone anymore.”

These are the words I found staring back at me. I sat open-mouthed, stunned to my very core. I sat in the same spot for nearly 15 minutes reading these words over and over again. Goosebumps covered my arms, a chill ran through me, and I began to cry. I had kept this sweet friend of mine, someone I consider to be more of a sister, at a distance for so long and she was still loving me from afar.

Over the past seven months, I have confronted some of the darkest parts of myself – thoughts, fears, and emotions that have lingered since childhood. To this day, I’m still not sure what radical shift happened to move me to the point in January where I just no longer had the energy to keep playing all these roles in my life that didn’t feel like my own. All I know is that right after Christmas, I got terrible food poisoning – I threw up 16 times and actually thought I might be dying. No one else got sick, and when I went to the doctor, he explained it wasn’t bad food that had made me so sick, but the accumulation of too much rich food that the body has trouble digesting – a crise de foie, or a “crisis of the liver.” In French, the word for faith is also foi – pronounced the same as foie with a mere gender distinction between the two words. I find it to be an interesting coincidence because by the time I rang in the New Year, it was clear to me that something was deeply wrong inside – a crisis of faith. I no longer trusted myself, or at least the part of myself that has always pushed me to keep going without asking questions. I no longer trusted what this person had built for herself, no longer trusted what she felt, no longer trusted the institutions that had told her she was smart and capable and worthy of love.

Now, seven months and many therapy appointments later, I have the benefit of a bit of distance to reflect on that time and to appreciate the difference in how I feel, how I express myself, how I am gentler with myself. I have pushed a lot of people away, not just this year but in the years following my mom’s death, building walls to mask where it hurt the most. Of course, I have wondered what would have happened had I read my friend’s message back in February, or if I’d been honest about how I was feeling the day she came to visit me after Mom died instead of trying so hard to be “normal.” What would these past six years have looked like? Would I have made different decisions? In February, would I have even believed her and been able to accept such selfless love and grace at a time when I was hurting so deeply?

Her message has taught me a lot about love at a time when I have had to reconsider my own misconceptions on the subject. It also has made me consider my own pride and the different forms it takes on – we never think of ourselves as being prideful, it hides deep within us, until it kind of hits us in the face. It is painful for me to read some of my older blog posts, not because I don’t like the writing or think those stories aren’t important. I’m glad I wrote them down and shared them with you, and I believe it has led me to places I wouldn’t be had I not started. What makes me cringe is that I know when I first started writing them, I wanted you to understand these things that hurt so badly, while convinced that you could never understand them. It is a weird kind of pride to have – we often think of pride in terms of boosting about the things we have or the things we are good at. All forms of pride are a shield against the things we are afraid to face, or afraid others will notice in us. I was so afraid of being “the girl who’s mom is sick” or “the girl who’s mom died” that I had to protect my loss, claim it as my own so that others wouldn’t do it for me. But in my own head, I WAS the girl who’s mom died and so I had to protect myself even more.

It also makes me think back to my days in college when I was volunteering with Relay for Life. It was a great outlet for my grief, a way to connect with other people affected by cancer and to actually do something about it. I think about how my entire dorm raised money that year, and then the next, for my team in memory of my mom. Of how my roommate and friends and church family baked cookies for bake sales and galas, how they woke up at five in the morning three years in a row to help organize our team fundraiser, how they walked for 20 hours beside me every year, how they helped me raise probably around $10,000 for cancer research in four years. No one ever said they didn’t want to do it, and their enthusiasm and support helped me rally through the hardest parts of the year. And still, I thought that they didn’t understand! All this pride to mask all the things I was hiding from myself.

What I’ve come to realize, now that this pride has moved out of the way, is that everyone understands pain. There are different types of pain, different degrees of pain, different names for pain. But we all know what it’s like to feel worthless, enraged, abandoned, not good enough, afraid, or broken. Different experiences shape us but in the contexts of our own lives, we all understand these emotions as humans. My pain feels unique, because my mother was unique and our bond was special. But if we didn’t understand the basic premise of pain, would we really be able to love each other through the hard times the way we do, even when we may have never experienced what the person is going through?

I have learned a lot about my grief and about myself this year. I have learned to accept that it does not go away, that it will require constant care and self-love. Every season brings in a different tide – usually it is just a thimble-full, tucked away inside, but then without warning, it becomes an ocean and I feel lost at sea. It is times like these where I feel plunged into a silence, a bubble that I cannot burst. I can be riding the metro, surrounded by people and noise, or go out with friends and make polite conversation, but I cannot feel the hand that touches me or hear the sounds around me.

Luckily, I’ve always been a strong swimmer. But I’ve also learned over the past few months not to panic, not to be so afraid to float there for a moment. More importantly, I’ve learned how to reach out my own hands and grasp on to the amazing people around me who I love and who love me. Once I’ve embraced the fear, the anger, the sorrow, I’m able to swim back to shore, deflate the bubble, and tuck away that thimble again. I’ve learned to trust that I’ll find my way.

Last night I called my sister-friend and we spoke on the phone for two hours. It was amazing to hear her voice again and humbling to experience, once again, her constant love and grace in action as she listened to my teary apology and welcomed me back with open arms.

So maybe sometimes we swim in different oceans, but I know you understand.

The Littlest Things

Blogging can be a strange thing. It’s demanding of others to read what I write, to take time out of their day to interact with my words and the way I see the world. It’s a selfish things, in so much as writing is a selfish act, to ask for this kind of attention on my thoughts. So I often feel as if my content must make up for such selfishness, an apology for taking up this space. But then I get stuck in my head, caught up in this question of what is interesting and what is worthy of being shared. And then the words that come out feel stilted and hollow, devoid of any resonance, the result of my self-consciousness stripping away their natural power. I get caught up in the artifice of blogging, thinking that if I can just find the BEST café with the BEST wifi and the PERFECT amount of noise that soothes but does not distract, I will be able, at last, to create something worthy. And when nothing comes, I walk away from the task so easily, the discipline of sitting down and completing something suddenly so difficult.

So I stay away from this place, where many things were born, afraid of the discomfort. For every year I’ve been blogging, there has been a stretch of time, usually lasting about a month, when the blog has sat silently waiting for me to come back. Aware of this pattern, however, I wasn’t as concerned about this dry spell as in the past. Like most things, I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Instead, I settled in to see just where I’d come out at the end of this tunnel, having learned in the past that I usually emerge from these periods of drought with a better idea of how I want to proceed. I worked on other writing projects and tried to surrender control, following my instincts and exploring different genres. And to my delight, the words seemed to just spring up simply out of taking the time to let them flow on their own and coming back to those same words, tweaking and rearranging, finding better ways to say what I mean. I’ve been stirring up things within me that I’d previously been oblivious to, touching many nerves that released something else in turn. I am coming to terms with the fact that even as I pursue the art of finding the words, I am still someone who fears saying how I truly feel, saying what I need to say. And this little hiatus has reacquainted me with the beauty of what I do: getting to sit with myself, through the good and the bad, and witnessing the changes that come. If I’m lucky, I capture it in words and put it down on paper. But the moments pass quickly, so we must work in each moment.

To me, blogging is about finding the stories within all the ordinary mess of our days, exposing the beauty and ugliness that exists in everything and everyone. The most marvelous things is to sit down with pen and paper, phone off, and to move your hand across it, not worrying about what comes out. I am finally learning to trust this process in everything else that I write. So why not here? Why spend more time worrying about what to blog about than actually writing? I will no longer worry about how interesting this blog is, curating my writing the way we are apt to do on social media. Like the Moleskines and notebooks I’ve carried around with me for years, this will be the place of unfettered creation, where I write because I can and not because I have to. Where the littlest pieces of life – the simplest joys and the silliest of agonies – can be honored.

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