Erasing A Thread

Today I did it. I deleted a text message thread that existed for many months. It wasn’t easy and I contemplated doing so over the preceding weeks, but today, I decided it was time to take back my freedom. Seeing that text message each day was only robbing me of owning my individuality and sense of self. To me, it was a sign of disrespecting of myself and served as a reminder of the many moments I spent pouring care, concern and honesty into someone who did not want it and quite frankly, was not ready for it. Maybe they came into my life for a reason; to teach me what I don’t want or need, to teach me to embody my strength, to take back my power as a woman of worth; to remove myself as being an option for someone who did not want me as a choice and would never choose me.

When our communication began, I desperately wanted to believe it was mutually enjoyed, that there were benefits derived by each of us, but I realized this was never going to be the case. It was me; always me driving communication forward, always sending the message, always asking, always caring, always extending the hand, a listening ear and comforting word. Several days ago, I arrived at this realization, or maybe rather, it was the first time I finally began to BELIEVE and acknowledge the realization. Months ago and even weeks ago, I wasn’t ready to leave the communication fully behind, even though communication had ceased nearly two months ago. Still, I held out hope; I made excuses (he’s busy, he’s upset, he’s tending to other decisions, etc). That’s all they were though – excuses and invalid ones, at that. The truth? He was a person I met, a person I communicated with, met a couple times and weaved a story around that only truly existed in the confines of my mind. Is it wrong to have wished for something more, something enchanting and captivating? Of course not, but for me, I’ve come to realize that everyone we meet in life is not meant to stay, which can often be a painful truth. Sometimes, they come into our lives to teach us an important lesson; sometimes about life, other times about ourselves and how strong we really are, what and who we need and vice versa.

To realize all I hoped for is not reality is a tough pill to swallow, but a necessary one. Leaving behind the ones who are not ready or don’t want what we do, allows us to make space and open doors for those who do. Maybe it happens soon, or maybe in years, or maybe not at all, but even despite all these potential truths, I start the day with the awareness that whether or not it happens, I am whole, just as I am.

A Taste of Healing

When we’re ill, it is often easy and natural to wish for a quick, easy and rapid remedy. Whether it’s a pill, a procedure, or some other format, we may long for a solution that provides instant, or swift relief, anesthetizing us from further pain, whether it is emotionally, physically, or quite possibly, even both. More often than not, while there could in fact be a pharmacological remedy or a procedure that will help, from my experience, it isn’t always those interventions that prove to be most effective. Sometimes, it’s something else, something much deeper, profound and accessible, even if at times, it feels like it’s not.

Years ago, as a 20-year-old, after a lengthy hospitalization, I arrived at home scared, uncertain and perplexed as to how I’d be able to navigate life again outside of the hospital. All of it felt like an enigma and one I didn’t have the energy or desire to navigate. Though, I quickly realized, I wouldn’t have to navigate it myself and that first day and night, was one that ended up feeling a persistent hug that proved to heal and comfort me in ways no medicine or procedure ever could. As my sister and I walked out of the hospital that day in the late morning hours, the sun abundantly shone with a slight chill in the air. It was November, a few short days from Thanksgiving and with the sun around me and the presence of my sister, despite my fears, I started to feel like maybe this was a new beginning.

Later that evening as I settled in, I could smell the fragrant, pleasant and familiar aroma of pumpkin coffee brewing. It was a scent with so many positive memories attached to it, feeling like the texture of a warm blanket on the coldest of days. That night, I settled in for a night of a nostalgic Beverly Hills 90210 marathon with my mom and sister, with each of us sipping our respective mugs of pumpkin coffee. That day and night was part of my healing; serving as a necessary step to continue moving forward, leaving behind the broken pieces of the past and instead, embracing what the next moments would bring, knowing I had the tools to weather through.

As an avid magazine reader, the most recent issue of Bon Appetit Magazine inspired this blog post today, an enchanting, warm and emotive tale written by cookbook author, Hetty Lui McKinnon. Her story was one I never realized would have the impact it did and yet, since reading it, it has sat beside me on top of the ottoman I routinely fill with magazines. To me, her story serves as a reminder of how sometimes it is the love, actions and presence of our loved ones that prove to be the healing medicines we always needed, but somehow had forgotten along the way.

To provide a brief synopsis, Hetty’s story details her journey of healing postpartum and how no matter what she tried or ate, nothing could seem to fill or energize her in the way she needed or longed for, until the arrival of her mother and the nostalgic delicacy she brought along. Arriving after a long journey from Australia to the author’s home city of London, her mother was not empty handed, but rather cradled an insulated food flask in her hand, filled to the brim with an ethnic dish, geung chow faan, which the author explains is ginger fried rice. From the spiced, familiar aroma, to the flecks of egg and scallions, from the first bite, the tastes warmed her, filling the emptiness she’d nursed for weeks. As she ate, the author reflected on the many times this very dish had come to her aid in the preceding years; through many migraines, upset stomachs and other issues in childhood.

It’s like that for me. It’s not always about something being grandiose, unique or exclusive, but rather WHO has made it, given it, or spent time crafting it. Sometimes, a mug of coffee tastes that much better because of who made it and the love and time that went into creating it, even if it is a basic brew. Love can be seen, felt and heard in so many ways and each experience for all of us is a unique one. Her story reminds me that even in my sorrow, pain and anguish, sometimes it is the laughter of a loved one after a shared inside joke, the taste of a familiar meal, or the embrace they provide, that can be the most helpful and impactful remedy of all.