Reclaiming Our Joy

I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about the concept of reclamation.

I had a friend who recently passed away give me a piece of wisdom after my first big heartbreak in college. A song came on the radio that had my heart on my sleeve and my eyes weeping, and I lamented to him that I didn’t think I could ever listen to it again without feeling pain. He looked me square in the eye and said, “Don’t you dare let anyone take something you love from you. Listen to that song over and over again until it’s no longer their song – it’s yours.” That singular piece of advice might have been one of the wisest pieces of advice I’ve ever received.

I’m someone who attaches her emotions to every moment and every memory. To the detriment of every romantic relationship I’ve ever had, I have an uncanny ability to recall specific places, events, and details by associating them with certain signposts: a song, a scent, a particularly vivid sight. As a younger woman, this ability afforded me the prize of “always being right” because I, as they say, keep all the receipts. As I have aged, I’ve sensed that this ability may, in fact, be a hindrance more than a strength.

I’ve learned with age to pick my battles, both with loved ones and acquaintances. I’ve realized the sweet victory of being right increasingly dwindles, and even more so, my  satisfaction is eclipsed by a growing guilt that while I may have facts on my side, I’ve negated my opponent’s own experiences, perspectives, and reactions in my quest to be proven the winner.

And damn, if that isn’t my Dad to a tee. No one could doubt his ability to argue with the best of them, and I suppose that’s where I forged my own mettle at a young age. If you were going to bring an argument before the court of Dad, you had better work out every minute detail, anticipate every possible rebuttal, and be ready to bring every receipt to the table. And while many of those arguments ended with him being factually correct, I always left feeling unseen, unheard – that my own experience didn’t matter. I don’t want to live my life like that, and I certainly don’t want my kids parsing through their own interactions with me thirty years down the road trying to determine why they can’t escape their own patterns and behaviors.

About ten years ago, I leaned into this truth, and it made life so much simpler. Life didn’t have to be a win/lose sum but rather an ever-constant ebb and flow of conversation with other humans just trying to make it in Life School. I realized that at the end of this, we don’t get ranked in class based on our superiority, nor does anyone give a Valedictorian speech when our time is up. We just die. And what’s left are the moments we imprinted on our loved one’s lives. I didn’t want my imprint to be someone who picked every battle, who needed to be right to feel safe and secure in her place in the world.

So, I reclaimed that space for myself. And in the ten years since, other parts of myself have revealed themselves that deserve the same attention, closure, and reclamation.

Today marks 22 years since a man crept in my apartment and stole every ounce of innocence I ever possessed. For years after, I dreaded November 11 in the approaching weeks, and I took careful consideration to give myself space for self-care and grief in that window of time. Thankfully, through time and therapy’s healing, I rarely think about that fracture in my soul. With the events of the past week in our nation, my heart and my soul have felt more tender and swollen than usual, and I woke this morning for the first time in years feeling that old grief. The beauty and horror of being human is realizing that the body truly does keep the score, even when our minds do not. I wanted nothing more than to pull my freshly clean sheets over my head and hibernate in bed, knowing I had the day off work.

However, I had told my sister I would join her and my nephew for a picnic at a local vineyard for his first birthday. I contemplated bailing, knowing we had celebrated his birthday this past weekend. I wanted to wallow. I wanted to retreat within to the only place I truly trust – myself. But I pulled myself out of bed and showered, and by the time we had laid out our blankets and I burrowed my face in the sweet smell of my nephew’s cheeks, I felt in my bones that I belonged there, with my people on a crisp, fall day in the warm sunshine.

I knew last year the birth of my only nephew coincided with one of worst days of my life, but I hadn’t really explored what that could mean. This year, I get it. Oliver’s birth has helped me reclaim this day, bringing it from ashes to beauty. The place in my soul that died that day has been replaced with joy and love. I reclaim this day, November 11, because evil, pain, and death doesn’t win. Life, love, and resilience do.

I guess what I'm saying is that many of us are feeling those pangs of grief right now for various reasons. It's not wrong to lean into the grief one bit; as someone who has hurt herself over again by avoiding discomfort, I'm a big believer in leaning in solely for the purpose of getting to the other side in a straight line. That being said, there's a place for also telling your pain to fuck all the way off while you go find some joy. Trust me, it will still be there waiting, but it just won't be as loud or all-consuming as it was before.

Happy Birthday, sweet Oliver. You are a gift, and Aunt Laney loves you so much.