Walking through a city park torn up by a fierce storm the other day, the metaphor was not lost on me. Huge trees lay splintered across sidewalks,crushed bus stations and cars, roofs flipped like pieces of paper – devastation visible and real. A woman had been killed in her home: while watching nature from her window, a roof flew into her home and took her life. Nature offered a glimpse into her power to destroy. And to renew. The morning of my walk, the air was fresh in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. The Herastrau lake seemed finally clear. The sky, bright blue, reigned over green brush from every corner. The kind of clarity that only comes after everything breaks loose. The kind of transition that strips away the dust, the distraction, the pretending. It brought me back into myself.
For the first time in a long time – I had my first job at 15 – there is no job to quiet my internal turmoil with. More poignantly, there is no clear calling, no fire lit under my professional cauldron. Every now and again, small sparks flicker – an interest here, a curiosity there, an idea today, a plan tomorrow. When I am able, I use my body as compass: what feels warm? A new way of navigating, away from “what is expected of me” or “what would bring in most money” or “what would enhance my reputation”.
A signpost in this fog is the unignorable need to contribute, to connect beyond the confines of family and duty, to offer something meaningful to the world. And yet, there is no road ahead that I can recognize. Just an inner knowing that walking the wrong path, again, out of fear, or urgency, or pressure, feels like picking at a barely healing wound.
For the first time it feels like there is no way around letting go. Of identities long worn. Of roles that defined me. Of being someone’s mother above everything and instead learning to mother myself for a change. Watching a child separate into their own person is a heartbreak that is both ordinary and holy, a transition from a love that protects with constant presence, to a love that waits quietly in the shadows to be called upon. And even then, does not take the first step. I watch our son grow quicker these days (or am I just seeing this now for the first time?) and separate from us every day, minute, second; I hurt in places I didn’t even know existed and I sit with this discomfort knowing all too well that soothing my pain right now in the wrong ways will mean cutting his wings. Because he loves us so much that he would allow that without a blink.
While the body does keep the score and is the most reliable barometer, as it turns out, choosing this time to tune into my body is tricky. Peri-menopause and a glimpse into what might follow feels like being handed a map in a language I don’t understand. This new stage my body and mind are entering, whispering, sweating and keeping me awake when I should sleep and viceversa, turns my foggy path into a jungle at times. Only one of the least researched condition worldwide. No wonder … not when men are almost always in charge.
And then there is the silence. The quiet of days without calls, messages or touch points. It started with a feeling of deep loneliness, of frustration, of anger even, but now it just feels still. And in this stillness, I am holding on to a flicker of understanding: maybe I have not been deserted. Maybe everyone became so silent so that I can be initiated. So that, tuning out all noise, I can finally find the courage to take a look at myself.
My favorite book from all the gems Dr. Brene Brown wrote is Braving the Wilderness. She ends the book with a quote from Maya Angelou that never made much sense to me: “You are only free when you realize you belong no place—you belong every place—no place at all.” In the lull of this new storm, this quote started to make sense. Freedom feels wild, uncertain, unanchored. But it also feels like something worth fighting for – even with yourself.
So here I am, on a metaphorical bench, at the crossroads of past paths I cannot return to and future ones I cannot see, uncertain and scary. And my wish for myself is to be able to sit still long enough so that this moment, this quiet, this storm, can offer me the lesson it is here to teach.
Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash
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