I’ve written many stories in my mind these past few years. I scrounge around, but I can’t seem to find the will to put fingertips-to-keyboard. I’ve stopped giving myself shit about that, because I get out of bed each and everyday trying to do my damn best. “I write for myself anyways”, I say over and over again, even though I continue to know that’s not true. I write in the hopes of sharing with others, so that they don’t feel alone in moments of hilarity, vulnerability, or one of the other many facets of the human condition.

I keep saying that one day I’ll dedicate myself to the task enough to stop feeling like a fraud whenever daring to think of myself as a “writer”. Or, less scary for my ego, as someone, who sometimes, writes down some thoughts, to share (or not).

Made up goalposts or extra rules about forced expression of my internal dialogue seem like such a ridiculous notion. But, I’ve noticed that the last few days, my laptop seems to be calling to me… “write it out”, it says on repeat. If you can’t talk about this bizarre feeling that has settled in your chest, then it will fester and squirm until it is reborn as something worse. I know this is the truth, so the moment has arrived. The feelings I can’t seem to shake are stemming from the fact that most people I know, are having a wickedly difficult time right now.

An acquaintance is in the early stages their family time being reallocated, because they and their spouse are soon-to-be ex’s. They co-parent a child together, and feel that the good intentions of things being amicable, are starting to take a turn towards the nasty. They’ve decided to keep this family uncoupling from their child until a firm/court-ordered plan is in place.

I’ve been down this road, but in the role of the child. I was too young to grasp much of what these official changes meant when they began, but even four year old me knew that sometimes people weren’t meant to continue being in one another’s lives. Seeing a sliver of what takes place on the other side of this scenario, the adult whose relationship is ending, and who knows their child will be deeply affected, is humbling. Being a child is such a self-centering role, that while I’ve imagined as an adult how gutting those long years of fighting must have been for my parents, this is my first time witnessing it so closely now that I also carry the title of, “parent”. To manage your breaking heart, while juggling all of the roles and rules of adulthood, and the fears of legal action seems almost unbearable. But, bear it you do, because what other choice is there?

The pain of those I care about doesn’t stop there: another friend is battling a serious illness, another is attempting to find a place to call home in this expensive city by the bay. One friend continues to struggle with their mental health, and yet another was just let go from their newish job that had reignited their self-confidence. While these things are happening outside of my daily life, I grieve for my friends, and bear witness to their confusion about what might be next in their stories of life. Lately, I feel a bit like a fresh bruise, where even the lightest bump can initiate a flinch of sympathetic pain.

I have my own personal pains of course. But, maybe I’m just sick and tired of being self-centered about my own bullshit I should work on. It sounds cute in a song, but it turns out that time doesn’t in fact, heal all wounds. Sometimes those emotional cuts will fester in to a boiling rage that will contaminate your blood supply. Like MRSA, if left untreated, these pains will fill you up with a living rot that destroys you from the inside. My best friend spends hours listening to my winding thoughts and weaving tales that stem from these ancient wounds. I thank the universe every single day that someone with such a kind and patient heart entered the story of my life when I was so young.

Oftentimes painful change is the precipice of a new life chapter. It’s nauseating to stand at that cliff edge, not knowing what comes next. It’s not a fun experience, and unknown pains are frequently lying in wait.

I currently feel like I’m in one of life’s big liminal spaces.

Literally, we’re in a home that is a transitional place for us, as our own home is nearly ready for our return.

Metaphorically, I am remembering the vivid feelings I had in the few months prior to Miles being born. I felt there was a massive change on the horizon, but I didn’t have any experiential comparisons to help ease my brain’s burden of understanding what was to be.

To all of you, whether you’re struggling or thriving, I am proud of you. You are trying your best, and when you’re able, you’re doing.

You are not making it up. Your feelings are real. This pandemic, has altered us all.