A few weeks ago, my family and I went on a short road trip to visit my mother-in-law. I popped into a Starbucks on the way out of town; I’d ordered a couple coffees beforehand to make the process go a little faster. When I arrived, there were two hot cups waiting. I quickly grabbed them both before stopping to see if they were mine. A few feet later it donned on me that one of them did not look like the other, and I would have to return half of the order and wait for my rightful drink to be ready.
A few minutes later, a girl—maybe 13-years-old—did the same thing, except she got farther than I did, and when she returned, she was sheepish, not knowing to whom she should admit her mistake, or whether she should acknowledge it at all. I watched as she placed the drink back onto the counter and looked around self-consciously. Instinctively I said to her '“don’t worry, I just about did the same thing,” and she smiled a grateful, still shy smile, and, oh my goodness, I realized I knew her.
I knew her because I was her.
I remember those days of being so painfully, unrelentingly shy that I could barely move without thinking twice about it, and how it felt to have an adult be kind to me. When I had no idea how the world worked or what it meant to be a person there.
The weirdest part is that I still feel this way sometimes. I forget that I have come so far. I think this is because I mistake my own tenderness for that childlike self-consciousness, or the instinct to observe and be quiet, for shyness. When, in truth, I am not a child any longer, and I am the doting adult, and this, where I am, is actually what rooted feels like. That even though I often feel like I have jumped into a giant body of water, water I can’t swim my way out of, I have in fact done this jumping on my own—something a younger me wouldn’t have even thought to do.
I think I’m learning that there will always be fear. Fear is not just for the young who don’t know any better. There is fear that we will remain who we always thought we were. Or the fear of doing something different. But where there is fear, there is also growth, and jumping and knowing—somehow, somewhere—that we will be caught.
When the fears circle in and out of my head, my response, lately, has been: what if you released it? because that is an option I can tell myself that brings forth a very physical response: lighter shoulders, softer eyes, a smile, and perhaps even a little laugh.
So, the next time you feel fear, could it also just be a big lake in front of you? With all the same trappings of a summer day? And it could be scary to jump from that high of a rock, or jump into the dark, cold, wet, unknown. But you could also release all of that and just jump, and then, just swim. Swim and enjoy the water and how it feels on your body: calm, central, immersive, warm.
“So, like I said, I’m fighting with God. I just wish they would do what I wanted every once in a while. They made me a woman, and women can do anything. Doesn’t that count for something?”
-Fighting With God
Read My Work
Last week, my piece “Fighting With God,” was published by Paloma Magazine for their one-year issue.
“I Wish I Could Go to Costco With My Parents,” recently published by Funicular Magazine.
“The Clearing,” in issue four of Archetype: A Literary Journal.
“Everything Belongs,” in Prairie Fire’s 2023 Summer edition.
