The Girl I Used To Be

The anxiety crept in as soon as my mom finished her words, “Your dad and I want to fly you and Emma home for her spring break.”

They thought I could use a break. They weren’t wrong. They’ve heard it in my voice for a long time now, and see it on my face over FaceTime chats and the few visits we get in during the year. They know I’m not the girl I used to be. But they, like nearly everyone else, just don’t know what kind of a break I truly need.

The break I need is much longer than five days away, and doesn’t consist of traveling back-and-forth with all of my stresses and worries still intact.

Honestly, it’s why I get so anxious about traveling these days. Because no matter how relaxed I may feel while I’m away, it’s only temporary; and I know that despite broken-down begging and prayers, I’m unable to truly escape the reality that life has become.

The debt and the financial strains;

The uncertainties and unknowns;

The loneliness and periods of feeling hopeless;

The continued symptoms and struggles that happen every day, that no one else knows about;

And all of the other things that pop into my mind and weigh on my heart that come and go like the tides.

They just don’t go away, no matter how many miles are traveled or how much time spent away. All of these things, every thing (as little as it may seem to another) that has come to surface during this last chapter, are always with me. They are me, and I carry them with me, each day and everywhere I go.

I thought about my parents’ offer for a few days and finally began looking at flights between Chicago and Pittsburgh. When I ran out of excuses not to go, I finally agreed to book the flights to spend a few days of Emma’s weeklong spring break back (and my well-saved PTO) in my hometown.

Honestly, between us, I considered canceling my flights daily, for reasons that maybe no one else would understand. It has to do with many previous experiences, and all of the emotions that I knew I’d feel once again, beginning with our departure in Chicago, the days spent in my hometown between flights, and the arrival back to my nearly-two-decades-long city of residency.

But I ignored my anxieties, getting guidance to recognize the time we’d be able to spend together, that has greatly lessened over the years, and acknowledgement that one day I won’t have this opportunity to see them with my daughter in the home I grew up in.

While there, things were pretty much as they always are. I started off with a shower and long nap in my childhood bedroom, to be followed by a home-cooked meal and a few glasses of wine under a cozy blanket by the fireplace. I felt a sense of peace come over me, like my worries were gone for a moment. All that was missing was my dog, and I really was missing her and the comfort she provides me.

That feeling came and went through the next few days. I was happily distracted spending time with my cousins’ kids during a family gathering and enjoying a fun day out with a longtime friend who traveled in from Ohio with her three kids, but eventually reality would strike again when I realized that I’m not really living the life I want to be.

One night, I decided to look through my parents’ photo albums. There were photos from their wedding, but the first album they had started back when I was born in September 1983. I was the high school sweethearts’ first child, who came nearly twenty years after they began dating and after a decade of marriage spent hoping for child. Then there I was, their baby girl, born with lots of dark hair just like my father. I changed their lives forever, just like my own daughter did to mine thirty-some years later.

As I turned through the pages of the albums, which began to include my younger brother as our family of three became a family of four, I started to process the emotions that reminded me just how far my past goes.

The baby with lots of dark hair, but lightened as she captured her first milestones.

The one-year-old who celebrated her first birthday in their beloved New Jersey beach town.

The big sister, who looked cute and innocent in pictures but had her fair share of sibling rivalry.

The four-year old who threw a tantrum on a mini golf course big enough that her parents’ friends still remember it, and can’t believe she turned out to be so kind and caring.

I wore pink dresses for holidays, dance recitals, and weddings, costumes for Halloween and school performances, plaided uniforms my Catholic elementary school days, and jerseys and sports attire as I found my niche on basketball court and soccer field.

And then I got to the photos from my teenage years, and felt the resurfacing pain of body image issues, lacking confidence, and adolescent trauma .

As I continued to flip through the pages, I couldn’t always remember the girl I used to be. She was there in photos, some which did elicit long-forgotten memories, but something in me still questioned if that was truly me.

I noticed that she used to smile a lot more, usually with her teeth showing which I rarely ever do now. And she seemed happy. Sometimes really happy. In some photos, I was reminded of my daughter. It was innocent happiness, which comes before life’s traumas, pain, and sadness change everything and dim the light inside of you.

Without even looking at the photos still remaining in my parents’ house, I know exactly when my own internal light began to dim. I also know the times in my life when the light brightened up a bit, and then when it permanently dimmed again.

As I’ve acknowledged before, life has challenged me for quite some time now and has also inevitably changed me. Through this journey, I’ve come to understand that life is supposed to change you get older, experience new things, face hardships, take risks, and learn more about who are and want to be in this crazy world.

You aren’t supposed to be the same person that you were when you were younger, especially when obstacles changed the world you once knew and challenges lead you in a new direction.

But that person, that little girl or that little boy are still within you. Their memories, their dreams, their fears… they are still there, for some, buried deep behind sadness, heartbreak and trauma.

Looking through old photos and feeling nostalgic while inside my childhood home, I recognized about how I don’t remember what it’s like to not wake up in the morning without a weary mind or an achy heart. I thought about how much I struggle with not having concrete answers to questions that have haunted me and clouded my days, for a very long time now.

But I also recognized how differently I see the world around me, with much clearer eyes and a fuller heart for others. I’m grateful to have learned important lessons, like who to give my energy to and, frankly, who not to.

Above all else, I’ve come to see myself more than I ever have before. My true authentic self, who still has dreams that now include of having clarity, peace, and many more better days to come. And if I’m being honest, sometimes those dreams even include love, which is something that the bedroom walls of that old house reminded me that I’ve always hoped to find.