Today a photo memory popped up on my phone, reminding me that two years ago I was watching my daughter’s class perform a play. I can remember the night vividly; the food we ate at long, covered tables, the lighting, the lantern walk after into the black night. In this way, the passing of those two years feels unremarkable. I am two years older. A few more wiry silver hairs halo my head. My then craggy-toothed 7 year old has become a long-limbed 9 year old. The most ordinary passage of time.
But I know the truth behind the pictures. I know that despite outward appearances, I was falling, and fast. It’s hard to pinpoint just when that wild descent started but by this day two years ago, I was doing some carefully choreographed free falling disguised as having my shit together. It’s painful to look at those pictures and think about the months I was about to face. I wish I could shield 31 year old me, or at the very least warn her of what was to come. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d have entered the crucible anyway.
I looked at those pictures tonight and felt an old sadness remembering that time. But also, I felt relief. And pride. Because that old me, beloved though she was, isn’t here anymore. Because those two years changed me. Because 33 year old me is no longer falling. She’s landed just where she needs to be.