I get these little panics. Seismic ripples. Barely perceivable if I weren’t looking—but I am. No one else would notice. It’s impossible to see someone’s underwater activities. Like the hidden depth of an iceberg, what’s below belongs only to the one carrying it. Mine is smaller now, manageable—like a few percent skimmed from your paycheck into retirement.
And if I stop and really pay attention to it? The rushing quiets. Like the moment a camera shutter clicks—time frozen, stilled. No commentary, just space. Just focus. Just presence. And somehow, that feels… okay. The depth of me is okay.
This week someone in our co-op group called me “spunky.” (I first heard “feisty,” but no—spunky.) My offhand joke about hiring strippers had her laughing. I’m glad. I love tossing a little chaos into the mundane—a firecracker, a spark, a pinch of zest. When it’s all in good fun, what could be wrong with that?
Nothing—until I turn it on myself.
Her name is Becky. The bitchy, middle-aged soccer mom in my head. She’s not anyone’s real friend, but she half-smiles her way into everyone’s circle. She’s got a too-shiny manicure and a too-practiced gasp. Always ready with a comment, never kind. She hisses her dismissiveness: Oops, did I offend you? That’s not what I meant. And her oopsies pile up like little shits in my space.
She’s me. Or part of me. She was there when I needed someone sharp to push me through. She’s not bad—but her tactics are cutting. And I don’t need knives anymore. I need a soft landing. A blindfolded trust fall into a cloud of butterflies and angel kisses.
Tonight, though, it’s quiet. Dave is on his Kindle, Evelyn is happily watching Numberblocks, and I’m here finishing these words. Structure has given us more peace than I hoped for. We get things done efficiently, but more importantly—we’re connected. Earlier we played mini Uno at Evelyn’s request. The cards are the size of toy soldiers, perfect for her little hands. Which must give her an advantage, because she beat both Dave and me. Twice. And no—don’t think we went easy on her. She’s just that good.
Now Ray LaMontagne’s voice is floating through the house:
Step into your power, child, step on up. Don’t be afraid to fall.
It’s the getting back up that makes you strong.
Lately messages like this find me everywhere—songs, books, billboards. And always right when I need them most. Because I take stock a lot. Maybe too much. And usually not in a positive way. I see where I want to go, compare it to where I am now, and feel bad about the gap. Which is ridiculous—because never before have I been more stable, more grounded, in so many areas of my life. And from this place of stability, I finally have the room to grow, stretch, and push the limits.
Love, Jaclynn