crumbs.

You cooked for me once, in the earliest days of our togetherness. 

Pasta, no cream. Chocolate chip cookies to finish.

I leaned against the molding of your archway, not yet confident where I could take up space in what belonged to you, and told you how touched I was when you listened to my nervous ramblings.

Meat and gluten were fine, but I'm sensitive to dairy.

It was one of the kindest gestures I had been shown — hand-rolling noodles with one hand while handing me a glass of wine with the other.

You pointed to the breakfast nook, inviting me to sit and watch you move gracefully through the kitchen. Telling me about your work day over the sauce bubbling in the pan.

I don’t know you now. 

In hindsight, I can see that you gave me very little and I continued to build an entire future with it. 

You see, the simple act of being remembered and heard had never happened to me before. 

With vigor, and without graveling 

I took your crumbs and made a meal.

the spaces between.

My Grandmother is a stubborn woman. She is not one to show her cards so quickly, but I have never seen her face light up the way it does when she talks with her grandchildren. She tells me that when I was young, I seemed to feel the full threshold of life. Almost on accident, like a fall, but as frequently as changing clothes, I’d slip past the doorway and be gone for a while.

I thought that’s what loneliness was then. The spaces between my grandmother’s quilt squares, the gaps amidst my mother’s palm holding mine, or something within sentences exchanged that I was not meant to hear. Because it wasn’t just loneliness, but the coming and going of it. The fact that I, really, had nothing to do with any of it at all. I’d be sitting at the park, someone’s child would cry and I’d be back. The sweat of my hairline would dry and send a chill down my spine. The heat of those around me would never reach me, not through my clothes at least.

I’m realizing that I have been lonely in such a way for so long that I often search for it in extremes. If I was not able to enter life on my own terms, then I wanted to exit inside of it. Not leave it entirely, but find another route through.

I wanted to evaporate into the moisture of morning dew, lay my back flat against a porch chair, and dry out. One day, I’d become an object that no one missed or needed, one that they could leave alone or behind.

Yet, I have never gone back to that feeling. Never revisited or yearned for it. Instead, I found a seam between these worlds I closed. Needless to say, I am not as lonely anymore.

I think my Grandmother would be proud of that.

slowly.

I am trying to walk slowly. The kind of pace that you have to make a conscious effort to be aware of. The slower I go, the more I realize how easy it can be. Almost like I slip into the current of something that is as natural as the pitch of my voice or the color of my eyes. Maybe I’ll learn to participate in the place I occupy or the scenes I witness. The avenues and alleys and streets will be names I remember. I’ll listen to ambient music and see without well traveled thoughts. I’ve decided that I want to be here while I pass by, instead of having those be two separate things. Observe the way the light hits building covered in oxidized Latin and Spanish words, learn the artist’s names written on murals. One day, when the houses I walk by become businesses or larger scale buildings, I would try to remember what I learned when I slowed down.

a story for if we became strangers.

I finished a drive from my mother’s house where I visited my family and did my laundry. I’m 26 but I still bring my hamper when I come to see my hometown like I’m in college again. I slept on her couch and woke up to a small heater placed near my feet. Even in the wobbly sleepwalk to her bedroom, she would never let me get cold. 

I walked up to my apartment door, fumbled with my keys, and opened up to my dimly lit living room. My cat rolls on the floor to greet me and I walk to my room. I throw my unfolded clothes onto my bed and lie down next to them. I always hate how long it takes me to put things in their places. As I folded and organized, I knew that the night was to be a night claimed by my big sweatpants and newly cleaned sheets. 

There are not many things I love more than feeling small in my bed engulfed by my covers. I washed my face and nestled in the middle to read by my candle. Here, though I was not lonely, I finished my book and I thought about you. 

It was just for a second because if I were to talk about any of these things with anyone for me I would pick you. Even as strangers now, maybe less likely but still true. For me, it would be you. 

Did you ever change the head on your toothbrush? I hope so, might be a little unhygienic not to. Do you still avoid pajamas? Has your crew sweatshirt collection grown? Is your sleep cycle still terrible that you would still be awake if I called you to tell you about this book? Not important now. 

I felt my eyes fluttering and begging for rest which meant I’d see you so soon. In my dream that night, I finished the book and didn’t think to wake you. I could tell you in the morning. Instead, I turned to face your body. I curled into your shoulder blades, your bare skin brushing my eyelashes. My eyes were relieved from straining them to read. 

In all of my dreaming, I am home. Wrapped up in you, I always hope the morning takes a little longer to arrive.

feeling understood.

When I was 7, I had a crazy stutter. It came up when I was excited about something and trying to explain it. Or when I was nervous and trying to get that energy out of my body. I was told by my sophomore-year English teacher that my brain moved faster than my mouth and that maybe I should learn to slow down. To pace out my sentences and try to articulate them more cohesively, to make them easier to understand.
When I was 22, I started talking to my therapist about my desire to be understood. She asked me why that was so important, I told her it’s the same feeling I get when I meet someone and want to bring them to where I grew up. In my mind, giving someone these spaces of growth would help them see me better. All of my mother’s gifts I made with macaroni and glitter, the photos of me and my brothers in jr high, the dresses I wore to prom in high school, and the walls that line with the smell of the citrus trees from my back yard.

I had hoped that context would be given to whoever I let enter that space. Somehow that seemed to be easier than slowing my pace like my teacher suggested. I would just invite someone over, let them look around, and somehow be able to say “This is me, please understand. Please see this, it is what I feel I look like.” It sounds ridiculous to write out. Maybe the visual isn’t coming out right, let me over-explain myself:

Feeling understood is like having someone find all of your collections. Silverware, photos, plates, old jackets, papers you taped on your walls, and busted journals you wrote in every year of life. Feeling understood feels like all of these things held up to a light for someone to marvel at and say “There you are.” Maybe, as the years go by and I have had folks enter my collectible spaces, maybe then I can slow down because I still have not learned how. One day, it will not matter who holds me up to the light with whimsy and curious irises. But instead, what will matter is that I have given that intrigue to myself. That I am able to give that understanding I craved all of my life, back to me.

So the question I have now is not so much about asking if people understand me or anyone else. The question I have now is, why does it matter at all?

thinking lately.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about integrity. I have always felt I had a strong sense of self and discernment of what was good. How I was as honest as I felt I could be and maybe a little too much. I have been overwhelmed by how my mind runs wild and my mouth follows in ramble, but I’m not really saying anything. All of these things add to the ever-present question I have asked myself lately: Does the intention of my character come out the way I hope it does? 

For example: In the moments where no one is there, am I trustworthy? Do I seek honesty, justice, and truth? Am I genuine in those pursuits? And in the times I am with others, does it change? If it does, why? 

I’m beginning to wonder if the way I have acted out my character, has been motivated by something else. Like what my loved ones expect of me, the way a past relationship treated me, or even the way I have hidden behind my self-reliance and my self-doubt. When I take a deeper look at myself, I do not think I have done it right. I haven’t done myself much justice here. And I certainly haven’t given others an honest chance to love me for the whole of me. 

I think that has been the biggest cost of my lack of courage. What version of myself have I not nourished because of my lack of personal integrity? Who have I missed out on learning from because of my inability to listen? 

I’m taking in these questions and sitting with them. I don’t think I have had integrity in my character and it has hurt myself and my relationships. I want to commit myself to listening more. To sifting through the stalls and sitting with all the bullshit I have let myself develop. From there, cleaning and relearning what it means to maintain this sense of self. I commit myself to taking responsibility for my actions and listening to myself when I need space. I want to be held accountable when I am wrong. To release my grip on my need to feel recognized, and seen. I am choosing to pursue that integrity, to learn generosity, and to embrace humility. I do not want to perform nor be complacent and that line is blurry most days. But I commit myself to the work of it. Day by day, hour by hour. 

knowing now.

I oftentimes think about my age. Being in my mid-twenties now, I remember I had so many expectations for this time. Maybe I would have been married by now, in a career I’m passionate about and doing well in. I’d have a space that I could create into a home and life wouldn’t be perfect but I would have succeeded in some element. I used to think that I would know I had won by who I was with. Having a hand to hold seemed to be the highest importance for most of my life. So I focused on being whatever version of myself everyone felt safe with. I’d mirror the energy people gave me and slowly became fragmented pieces of them too. Don’t get me wrong, in the right situation and proper limits I think this characteristic is admirable. I can provide a space for people to love and be loved. To feel like themselves and hopefully, feel seen by that. 

I love people and relationships and the intricacies of each of them. I’ve had a spectrum of experiences to know that I didn’t always do it right. Imperfection and triggers from my own past were the things that stunted a lot of my growth. 

Until very recently, I used to think that if the love I gave to people was not reciprocated then I had to take it as a challenge to convince them of my worth. Most of us do this, think it’s our responsibility to show another how worthy we are of being treated well. I am learning now, that I have done it all wrong. I am forgiving myself for looking for places where I wasn’t loved instead of being at home with myself. 

I am also learning that being empathetic without limits is absolutely self-destruction. I am someone that seeks to understand fully. I want to know why someone does what they do and I want to hear how they need to be loved in that process. I have been wildly hurt in that because I had zero limits. I was anxious and insecure and so frustrated that I put myself there. Sometimes people are just hurtful and I don’t have to understand why to know that they are. I am learning now that having a heart that is expansive and bold is best served with boundaries. 

My expectations had been wrapped in a time of my life where I measured success by a bank account number, who I was with, or the way I was perceived. My mid-twenties have been kind of a dumpster fire as far as those specific requirements go. But I’ll take all of this for what I am trying to understand. That being 25 is young and joyful and painful and confusing. Most ages are, but the better part of this is I love this person I am getting to know now. Messy and often embarrassing, but driven and kind. So regardless if you are 25 or 85, success is in the learning and I hope you are taking time to find lessons in the everyday. I hope you are gracious with who you are getting to know now.