At 31
Finding a place to write from, emotionally, can be incredibly difficult for me. A number of years ago, I stopped writing after I felt like a group of friends I was spending time with then was judging me for being so open and vulnerable on the internet. Writing comes naturally to me, and it’s an incredible outlet for me. In fact, I met my husband because of some pieces I was writing. So when I felt like these people whose opinions I valued at the time were judging me, I stopped writing. I didn’t want to be “that girl” who voiced her opinion loudly.
I had always been told my personality was somewhat of a tornado, and felt mostly as if my opinions or stories had little value. These people were wrong to make me feel that way, but I didn’t know it at the time. I was new to the area and just wanted to make some decent friendships. Looking back, I lost valuable time spent worrying about what they thought of me and valuable thoughts lost at sea because I never wrote them down. After being a published writer with many pieces floating around the internet, even working towards forming ideas for a book, writing for groups, freelancing, and also for my full time job, I just stopped completely. I stopped writing for 6 years.
In that time, I justified my lack of writing by saying I was too busy. In those lost six years, undocumented, I had moved countless times, adopted a dog, birthed three children, gained and lost friendships and ultimately now at 31 have most recently developed a sense of self that seems foundational. I’ve never had that before. I never knew who I was, but I was simply going along with what everyone else around me was.
At 31, I have developed a yoga practice which helps me sweat out my stress and anger. I’ve accepted the diagnosis given to me by a trusted mental health practitioner and I’ve worked countless hours through therapy and self-acceptance. In early 2019, within the span of just 3 months, I suffered more losses than I could have ever imagined. I never told most of them, because I was ashamed for people to know. That seems silly now, but part of me still feels that being open is wrong. We all know that is not true.
At 31, I have five children. Three of them are here on earth. Two of them were lost early in pregnancy. I have seldom told even the people closest to me, for fear that they might feel sad for me, or that they might think about the pain I went through alone. It was indeed painful, and I wish more people had known. Miscarriage is something I would never wish on the worst living person on earth. It is physically and emotionally painful, a deep wound in your heart that heals to a thick scar. Both babies were lost in that time of 2019, the late winter turned spring. I sat on the edge of my bathtub speaking to a midwife, bleeding and staring at the field outside the window. I will never be the same. That is for the better. I understand deep loss now and how it travels behind you like a drafty wind.
At 31, I have read more books and studied people and gained wisdom. I have watched my husband cry and felt my children freshly birthed and laid upon my chest. We have celebrated birthdays and due dates and anniversaries over 9 years’ time. We have watched the winter wheat come and go, and be tilled up and planted with something new. I have seen the sunrise and the sunset a hundred thousand times. I have breathed in deeply and released my rage from the heart. I have kissed a sleeping child a hundred million times.
At 31, I like to wear a sun hat and work in the front garden. I seldom have time for upkeep but I somewhat enjoy letting the weeds grow over and doing the hard work of pulling them all out. The overgrown garden turned fresh is satisfying in the wide well of my soul. Green plants do not thrive here, but I can always try again next season.
At 31, I have moved 10 times. I have listened to the voice of my mother tell me about her own mistakes. I have watched my dearest friend recognize her own worth. I have cooked and cleaned and wiped up messes and washed the dishes, listening to the bare feet smack and run on the wood floor behind me. I have become tired, and started over again.
At 31, I have no real home, except my lover’s arms. I have felt the sting of rejection, and the sin of longing for what is not mine, and the sting of what was mine and was still taken from me.
At 31, I wear a coat of thick down feathers in the winter and warm duck boots. I have a fancy pillow and what looks like my grandmother’s quilt. I settle in my old bed at night with a book and a glass of water and I feel my eyes heavy with sleep after just a few pages. I reach over and grab the heavy, freckled hand next to me.
At 31, I have settled into myself.
I will never again let someone stop me from letting my heart bleed out loud.
