Sometimes, I look down at my wrists, and I notice how small they are. They’re so small that I can wrap my thumb and pointer finger around them, making them touch with ease. Sometimes, like when I was cooking dinner this evening, I look down at my tiny little wrists, and I wonder how a person could grip them so violently. I look at how my bone protrudes out of it, and I think back to the night when everything changed for me. I look at my wrists, and I wonder how someone could say they love me, then hold me down and refuse to let me go. Sometimes, I look at my wrists, and I contemplate everything that happened that night.
This week, it seems everyone I know has asked me how I’m feeling about the move. My answer? Overwhelmed, terrified, scared. Of course the word excited has been thrown in, but never as much as the word scared has. And you know what? That’s okay. It’s okay to admit that I’m terrified of a life-changing move, terrified of being time zones away, terrified of living in a country where ketchup is called tomato sauce and they drive on the opposite side of the road. I think it’s alright to be honest with myself and others about how I’m feeling, but what I don’t think is okay, and what I’ve leaned into this week, is the fear that maybe I’m not strong enough to do this. Maybe I can’t handle moving thousands of miles away, maybe I can’t cut it, maybe I’ll return home after eight months, head hanging low. I’ve already had a breakdown about it, maybe that means I’m not strong enough, maybe my fear means that I am weak.
At my Thursday ritual of kickball then Tapyard karaoke, my friend Aaron came to tell me goodbye for the night; he said something that changed my perspective on things. I told him I was afraid, and he told me that he thought what I was doing was brave, and that I was really strong for taking a step this big. It’s not something people haven’t said to me before, but somehow, in that moment, it actually sunk in. Of course I just joked and said, “If I can handle what I’ve been through, I can handle this.” But what was said in a joking way isn’t really a joke at all, it’s true, and it’s empowering.
I think a lot of times we sell ourselves short on things, we don’t look at the full picture of our lives and what we’ve gone through; we don’t connect every dot. I’ve been looking at this move at times as a singular action, as a big on-its-own thing. I am moving far away, this will be difficult, I may be too weak to handle it, that is all. But, that is not all. When I look down at my wrists, I always remember the night that everything changed for me. I remember the betrayal, the pain, the helplessness; I remember the determination to break free. I remember how I did break free. I remember how it took weeks and months, but eventually, I clawed my way out of the misery that was abuse, and a new life was built. I remember how it felt to be so broken, then one day realizing that books brought me joy again. I remember waking up one day and feeling strong.
So, yes, I may be afraid, and that fear may sometimes make me feel weak, but I am not weak. There is no weakness in admitting that you’re nervous for a new step, that you want to talk it out, or that maybe you’re afraid things might not work out the way you want them to; honesty is not weakness. In the fear of facing these unknowns, I can look back at the trials and struggles that have brought me to where I am, and that have given me the strength to be who I am today. Because let’s admit it, it really does take a lot of guts and bravery to leave a perfectly good life in pursuit of an adventure somewhere else. It’s risky, it’s scary, that’s why not many people do it. But as my therapist always likes to point out to me, I’m not like many people, I’m a dreamer, and I’m not afraid to make choices that are outside of the ordinary because I want a life that is extraordinary.
The bright side to this week that’s been clouded by fear was the reminder that I am not weak, I am strong. The experiences in our past can either tear us down, or build us up into stronger people. I may look at my body and be reminded of a time when I felt weakest, but I can also remember how that moment fueled a change in me, how I refused to be hurt, and how I stayed strong despite my circumstances. If I can go through that and only get stronger, how scary can life halfway across the world REALLY be?
Yours Truly,
the Brightside Blonde