At the moment, we live in the gap between the way things are and the way things should be, and in the meantime, all we can do is try to make that space as lovely as we can.
-From the show Trying
I spent some time this week talking to my 21 year old self. I apologized to her. And forgave her. She didn’t know what I know. She didn’t know the pain she would walk through, the decades spent haunted by imposter feelings, the numbing that prevented her from breaking and the eventual shattering that would come anyway. And I... I didn't trust her to figure it out; didn't believe she was brave enough or strong enough to handle the necessary struggle.
Her craving for something that felt like stability and security impatiently insisted she force love, grab hold of what was present instead of guarding her heart and waiting for something safe. She did not understand it then: Love cannot be forced. It is forged, quietly, subtly, organically. She did not understand the implications of her decisions. She quietly neglected her inmost desire to be accepted for who she was, to be given space for who she might become, in order to be the right person for the one in front of her. She saw drive and ambition, excitement and adventure, and the hints of eventual financial security. She thought she could help heal the rest, those rough edges, and unhealed trauma that would later cut her so deeply she could not recover while still inside that construct. She believed love as a verb was far more important than love as a noun: That through her sacrificial actions and dutiful repetition, love would grow and love would heal and love would win. She did not know that it might only win for one while irreparably damaging the other. She insisted that the idea of “the love of her life” was simply a romanticized Hollywood concept, ignoring dozens of older couples who were still incredibly and deeply “in love” with their partners, whose eyes still sparkled at the very topic of their beloved, and whose voice softened as they recalled a memory or simply mentioned their name. She accepted the nagging numbness that was slowly taking over; the self-preservation that became her inner existence, and impatiently pushed forward, insisting she could make anything work, so stubborn and strong and scared.
I forgave her for rushing in….for her impetuousness, the recklessness which brought us here. I forgave her for ignoring the signs that felt like danger, for packing away her doubts and fears and what her gut already knew. I forgave her for only seeing two paths instead of the world full of possibilities. And I apologized for failing her: For being unable to meet her whimsical expectations, for walling up to save what was left of us, for refusing to accept the notion that it all fell on us to fix and for digging in my heels when I realized we had thrown away dreams and clung to irrational hope for something terribly unhinged.
And, then, quietly, I thanked her. Within the immense heartache, she gave me experience and joy and incredible, beautiful offspring.
We sat silent and still. So raw. So much wiser. Together, we gather what remains and are making lovely this space in-between. And, in the end, love is all that is left and love will always win. If it didn’t win, then it was not really love anyway.
