The Break

I turned 42 yesterday.

It was a Sunday. Weather was perfect.

I slept in. I meditated. I walked slowly. It felt like a gift to not be in a hurry..

I spent the day alone. My sons were with their father, my celebratory outings with friends scheduled for the rest of the week (yes, I celebrate for at least a full week, hashtag blessed).

I went to brunch. I brought a few books along. A young lady sitting close to me remarked that she wanted to be like me. “You just so obviously have your shit together,” she said. Is that what this looks like, I thought.

I did a new thing and rented a stand-up scooter and whizzed around the city on a hunt for murals. I felt 24 again—wind on my face and no traffic in the streets…sunshine, open road, fully captivated by my own sense of everything…

…and by everything, I mean freedom/privilege/grief/regret/heartache/desire/fear/curiosity—I’ve built a container to hold all of it.

For a long time I wrote about my life and shared it with people. I wrote about being a mom, being an explorer, being an advocate, being an organizer. And then I stopped sharing things, because my personal world fell apart. The family, the career, the sense of purpose, the willingness to be exposed—as the picture I’d painted with all my stories and words slowly (then quickly) collapsed, I could no longer express my life as it was happening. I had to pause and watch it crumble. I had to see just what I’d built and just what I was losing and I had to be still.

At first, I clung to everything. With white knuckles I held on to “the story”—the one you’re taught to aspire to early in life. And then, unable to hold on to it all lest I sink myself, I observed. I looked in the face of my husband and saw pain and anger. I looked in the face of my children and saw pain and anger. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw pain and anger and hopelessness. The gig was up.

I stopped writing on a public blog seven years ago. That’s how long I’ve been observing, processing, adjusting, grieving, praying, praying, praying…

Last week I went to the woods and ran as fast as I could to unleash my mind from the panic of the thought I’ve been carrying this whole time: I’m breaking, I’m breaking, I’m breaking. I reached a ledge and stopped to catch my breath. I look all around me—birdsong, trees, oxygen, dirt, and expanse.

Hell yeah, I realized.
I’m breaking free.

I’m proud to say I’m broken.
I’m broken in the places that were bound to impossible dreams.
And I’m ready to write it all down.

To my breaking—the best birthday gift I never knew I wanted.

Photo by Matthias Pens