what do i do with all this change?
am i over-thinking? on the precipice of a delayed period PMS induced spiral? exhausted from trudging through these -20 degree temperatures head-on? yes to all.
i had been scrolling through my google photos for almost a full-hour. was it torturous to go through photos of me from my 2021 trip to jordan? when i was perfectly tanned, perfectly skinny, perfectly… not in this country in below-freezing temperatures? october 2021: pre-bleached eyebrows, pre-real heartbreak, pre-living through more years of a global pandemic, pre-jadedness, pre-loss, pre-grief—i could go on and on, which makes the ‘pre’ of it all feel more distant than ever. i feel so changed.
these thoughts unfinished, followed like a shadow i’d only catch a quick glimpse of if i turned my head fast enough. i sat numbly, wondering if i needed to write something down, but not quite having the words to explain any of it. and then my email notification went off, all of my thoughts echoed in ella snyder’s new essay.
i’ve gone inward maybe too much lately. too afraid to outwardly blame how i’m feeling on a pandemic that started almost 5 years ago, ruminating over years lost that took away my personality in ways that i’ve had to rebuild over and over again. versions of me i am no longer familiar with, and some days i’m thrilled with that because i know parts of me needed to shift, and the pieces of me fit better together because i’ve shaved off so much. but when i descend into the archives of my google photos, i see a version of me that was lighter, freer, less paranoid, less anxious. the grit of the years wearing down so heavily that i’ve sanded off pieces of me i’m now painfully missing.
‘when was the last time i truly felt at ease walking alone at night?’
‘when did taking the subway plague me with feelings of claustrophobia?’
‘when did posting on instagram, in my feed, start to feel so debilitating?’
‘when did i start letting what people thought of me dictate who i actually was?
‘when did i stop calling myself an artist?’
every step feels weighted, this urgency to make sure everything i’m doing right now is worth it because what happens when it’s all taken away again? to me, it’s obvious that the stress of taking something for granted has left me second-guessing my every move. sometimes it feels like i’ve made so many missteps because i haven’t fully committed to honouring myself in years. in the loss of ease, i gained burden. carrying with me the after-effects of failed relationships, romantic and platonic. offering extra chances (too many to count), allowing my compassion to be taken advantage of, and flattening myself like a doormat for people who have only known to take and never give. when i’m left full of muddy footprints is when i finally decide to find my voice. the dust is never properly shaken out, and the leftover footprints mark a series of painful endings.
in all honesty, i thought typing out all this dread would release me of an upcoming spiral. i can’t confirm nor deny if it’s helped me in any way, i guess my journal will see to that. amongst all of these feelings of doom and gloom, i promise you i’m still trying, and i know that i have to because these lost versions of me will only be found through experiences, through learning, through all the processes of trial and error.
as i rebuild again, adjusting and re-adjusting in this cycle of change, i can recognize how necessary the constant spinning of the wheel is. realizing that maybe framing my dismay with change as a transitional phase has been a disservice to myself—isn’t everything transient?
so, i’ll sit with this change.
i’ll chew it. probably choke on it, then spit it back out. stare at the change spread out in front of me. eventually, ill manage to swallow it. but i know the next course won’t be far, and maybe by then, i’ll have digested enough that it won’t feel like i’m about to drown in it.
