Yesterday I took a drive from northern Vermont down to the Hudson Valley, taking the scenic route through the Adirondacks and along the river. Upstate, the leaves were starting to change color; the air had a slight chill in the air. Summer was over and I was going to be okay.
I drove slow, which I’ve found to be the pace of life that I like lately. I stared out at the forest surrounding me on one of the more remote backroads and thought of all the other forests I’d been in that were similar. With trees huddled close together, pine needles on the ground, and little streams of golden light filtering in from the canopy above. All the memories made with people I hold dear in forests like this came flooding into my psyche. A pang of gratitude filled my chest for the life I’d been granted.
Most of this year has been long and hard, full of circumstances I couldn’t control and didn’t know how to properly respond to. I tried. Really hard. With all the knowledge and resources at my disposal. I made mistakes, I said things I shouldn’t have, and I was exhausted all the time.
But I also showed up for the people I love. I showed up for myself. I dragged myself out of bed and forced myself to eat, work, exercise, cook, clean, run errands, and perhaps most important of all, live.
Slowly, with time, life calmed down again. I started to breathe without reminding myself. I spent weekends tanning on creek beds or hiking near my home upstate. I spent weekdays with my friends, laughing over drinks, running along the river or watching silly tv shows in our adorable NYC apartments. I started thrifting more, eating more ice cream, listening to music I liked when I was 16, painting my nails ridiculous colors that made me smile, staying out late, dancing in the street, and generally, without ever fully realizing it, becoming myself again.
But not the version of myself that existed before all this started. A different one. A better one. A version that aligns more with who I was at 18, when I thought I had nothing to lose and didn’t care about anyone’s opinion of me.
I’m learning that we cultivate the change that brings us back to who we are in little moments, over long periods of time. There was no grand occasion or picturesque point at which I realized that I felt better. It was slow. An hour where I didn’t think of the weight of everything that had happened. A pair of shoes that reminded me of ones I’d thrifted when I was 19. A beautiful conversation with a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. All these little joys mounted until I finally found stability in myself again.
I am excited about the future that’s in store. As I drove down the winding roads in Vermont and New York, I felt lucky to have been blessed with such incredible experiences so far in my life and ripe with anticipation for whatever comes next. The pain and the glory, in tandem, not isolation, are what makes life feel so rich.
What I guess I’m trying to say is: Breath. This too shall pass.
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