Cleaning out a drawer I found a few old pictures. They were from the days when I had no idea what I was doing. I was living a young and stupid existence. I was wild, tumbling into risks head on.
In those days, I surrounded myself with people who weren’t all that different from me. We constantly pushed boundaries. We thought we’d live forever.
I rarely wore sunscreen.
When I look at my hands, I see those of an old woman. They’re wrinkled and spotted, with protruding veins. While they resemble my mother’s hands, she’d scold me for the shape of my nails. Mine are rough and ragged, while hers were always filed and polished.
My face has changed, but I don’t look anything like my mother. My nose is a replica of my dad’s and his mother’s too. I’d look even more like my grandmother if my hair was short, permed and gray with a blue rinse.
The eyes are all mine, but they have been known to give me away. I have trouble hiding things, especially sadness, anger or intoxication.
“I can tell you’re lying because your eyes are turning green,” my mother would say.
So I hid them, even when I didn’t lie.
My sister has green eyes.
“Do they turn blue if she lies?” I asked my mother.
“Don’t be silly,” she responded.
The arrogance of youth prevented me from seeing how self-destructive I was. I flew high all the time. But I also crashed like a kite in the sand too often.
I tried to be more mature in my late twenties. I quit my high stress job in advertising and dove headfirst into being the best stay-at-home mom I could. I wouldn’t allow my husband to call me a housewife - I wasn’t married to a building.
I struggled with my identity back then. Gone were the high-pressure days of deadlines and meetings. No one respected my opinion anymore. I was up to my ass in tiny alligators.
So I began to dabble in art and music again, taking lessons at the local arts center. When I’d drop my kids at school I’d skip the housework and drown myself in creating things. I’d spend hours at the piano or painting. Soon I was teaching my own art classes. But playing the piano was just for me.
Back then I surrounded myself with other women like me. Most of us were former executives trying to understand this new reality of motherhood. We volunteered, took field trips and had play dates. Sweet memories of exhaustion and laughter.
When my youngest started kindergarten, I went back to work, this time I was an art teacher. I had wonderful mentors and colleagues. I loved that career.
Until I didn’t.
Eight years ago I left that profession to start my own business as a confidence coach for artists. I helped people get unstuck in their creative process. I taught watercolors and mixed media. I helped people discover their dreams. I loved the work.
Until I didn’t.
Once again my identity shifted when I was diagnosed with MDS. Actually, in a way, my identity disappeared.
Everything felt surreal. I had no idea where I was headed.
I’ve had to live in isolation long after the pandemic ended because of my stem cell transplant. For a while, exposure to even the common cold was dangerous for me. When the doctor told me all restrictions were lifted, I didn’t feel joy – just anxiety.
Now it’s hard to be around people. At first I thought everyone felt this way post Covid. But I’m wrong.
Going to a place filled with people makes me nervous, especially if they’re strangers. Other people’s energy exhausts me.
In conversation, I often check out. At times I’m mesmerized by the earrings of the speaker, or a squirrel runs by, taking my attention down a different path. I should have a sign to hold up that says - Can you repeat that?
Actually what I’m really thinking is, when can I get out of here?
Solitude is my normal.
I worry about the girl in the photo from 1976. She was only 18 years old, but had already messed up - many times.
Back then I was afraid of solitude. It meant I didn’t have a social life. I’m glad there was no social media back then. My bad choices could have been broadcast forever.
I went to the beach with my best friend Julie a few weeks ago. On the days she had to work, I took long walks on the shoreline. When I got tired, I’d sit and stare at the waves. I thought about all the times I’d done this exact thing to clear my head and think.
But looking at the ocean and dreaming was difficult on that day. It was hard to stay present - like when I get distracted in conversation. I had trouble focusing on the calm, rolling surf.
Then . . .
A girl caught my eye as she was doing handstands on the water’s edge.
Then . . .
I noticed a little boy looking lost, so I helped him find his sisters.
Then . . .
Julie’s dog Emmie made me laugh when she shook water off her fur, soaking me in the process.
Then . . .
I realized, that’s the point. Being present in the world I’m currently inhabiting is crucial to my survival. I need to venture out more and connect with people. Being a distant spectator, full of fear and anxiety, is no way to live.
I want to be like that sassy girl in the black sweater, sharing her opinions as she drinks beer with a cigarette between her fingers.
Or the mother of boys trying to imbed feminist ideas into their heads. I made sure to teach them to cook and dance with abandon. Two of the sexiest attributes in a man, if you ask me.
I want to be willing to take risks again like the little girl in on the sailboat. When my dad would yell, “Jibe-O,” I knew I needed to duck.
I never knew your story before. I’m glad to hear it now. I wonder if you ever knew how I admired you through the years—your kindness, generosity and steadfastness. 🤗
I hear you.....