Looking back to last December, I have really come into my own this year. I started CECW, which is small and amateur and sometimes mortifying, but it has been a meaningful outlet. I became a yoga teacher, and I don’t think I’ve been so proud of anything! It is sacred for me to offer this ancient practice that still rings true in a modern world, to hold space for others to honor themselves. I’ve had at least four memorable existential crises this year amongst the everyday dread: in May, working through the realization my sister and I are both adults when we visited in Michigan; in June, being left out of a wedding I thought I didn’t care to be in; this summer, managing an overwhelming workload that required travel and rocked my sense of self once again; and in November, really allowing myself to prepare for pregnancy (bloodwork, prenatal vitamins, browsing FB marketplace for car seats - the works) and ultimately deciding against it.
Last year, I asked my mom to go hiking with me on my birthday. We met in the middle, walked a little trail (as if there’s hiking in central GA), talked about my job, our family members, marriage, childhood, finances. My mom will talk to me about almost anything. I went to therapy for the first time a month later. My therapist’s intake form asked me to whom I believed I was closest - my confidant. I said, “probably my mom; sometimes my sister.” This year I’ve tried to unpack my relationship with her, which at first, was not intentional, just the natural unfolding of reflection on childhood, adolescence, why I become inpatient when operating in autopilot (out of ego), why I’m so determined to get things finished - in a hurry - efficiently - without interruption. Why I typically call her to humbly brag about a raise, a new client, an urge to bear children. Glossing over the days I don’t want to get out of bed; the things I count as loss; the heavy conscience that feels as if it were being dragged through the rich, black, East Texas clay, adding inches to my height as it accumulates on the soles of my boots. My big win this year was deciphering my inner voice from my mom’s voice - as sometimes all I hear is her, relentlessly pushing. She never gives up. I don’t give up too much - but likely worse than that is half-assing - which I seem to do a lot.
About once a year, usually around the winter holidays, I allow myself to watch my favorite movie: The Way We Were. The film appears to capture every emotion I’ve ever felt or wanted to feel in life, and yet, when it’s over, I can never quite put into words what weighs so heavy on my conscience - what is it that’s so true? So wonderfully true and heartbreaking. That there’s no “happy ending”? That the woman actually chooses herself? It’s earth shattering to me every time. She is so perfectly real; in some scenes I’m even embarrassed for her. She’s so annoying, so inspiring, so big. It’s her “too-bigness” that she is punished for, but also what makes her “somebody” as JJ says. I’ve written about my “too-bigness” before, how I am unsure what to do with it, stuck somewhere in the merry-go-round of half-assing my work, either too self-absorbed or not enough so. I watch this film and it convicts me, renewing my faith in grit. And it’s funny, because Katie never wins, she doesn’t see fruition or return, she just keeps going with such tenacity, to fight and protect and most importantly, believe. It’s timely that I’ve signed up for George Saunders’ Story Club, when just this week, he sent his newsletter to break down his short story, “The Falls,” which also explores this idea of leaning in and transcending oneself.
I’ve had love like this. A couple of times unrequited. But one time specifically, where I just “didn’t have the right style.” I made everything too hard, and I still do. I am intense and serious and thank god I’ve found people in my life who can take up space. It is hard work. But it’s even harder not to be this way. It’s so much easier to believe the world is ending (because it is, at least in the ways we know it). It’s so much easier to pledge a life to hedonism when you’re as privileged as I am.
Some days I have a hard time believing, much like Hubbell, who I think, represents one aspect of the human condition - preservation of self, which is underwhelmingly important. We are all working through trauma of some kind, trying to unlearn the samskaras that kept us safe at one time. In the end, our true natures are that of Katie, unapologetically herself, so assured, so intense, beloved and betrayed because of it. It’s scary as shit. It feels impossibly heavy. I must find the right people to help me carry it.