Fully Here: The Good Fortune of Healing

I slipped off my kitten heels and began

caressing my feet across the grass. I rolled them around, and rolled them some more. The grass felt like silk and then, like a bed of rose petals. The dirt beneath teased my skin. I hadn’t realized this was needed: the feeling, the moment, the energy. The night’s sky felt still, as if it were simply there to witness us. The air moved around us, unwilling to disturb us as we gathered. I thought about grabbing a third slice of guava cake, but the earth against my bare feet held me hostage. I was full from hibachi, cake, but also conversation, laughter, and love. It was the perfect summer night. I’m going to remember this, I thought as I glanced up at the sky. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening, and not listening, thinking and not thinking.

—

On Sunday, after letting my body adjust to the hot water, I slid down in the tub so that all but my face was covered. Being almost submerged evoked a reminiscent feeling. Where did I know this feeling from? Unable to remember, I threw my right hand out of the tub to reach for the book I was reading, The Tower by Flora Carr. Clumsily in my attempt, water splattered out onto the floor. I laughed, as if I weren’t going to be the one to clean it up. With my wet hands, I opened the book and began reading:

“Jane arrived at court not long after the birth of Prince James. In this febrile atmosphere she kept her head down. When she heard that both her parents had died of a fever, she did not do or say anything which might attract attention. Instead of weeping for her mother, she immersed herself in the queen’s language. Abandoned the speech of her childhood. At night she lay awake, mouthing new words to herself. Le chien, le chat, jaune, vert. Dog, cat, yellow, green. It was a kind of second infancy. A reinvention of self.”

—

I was watching a Simone Biles documentary on Netflix. It was the moment right after she removed herself from the 2020 Olympics. She’d phoned her grandmother. I watched, as her grandmother rushed to take the call and began to gently and lovingly reassure her. It was then that I knew something was about to happen, not in the documentary, but in me. I’d been running from this moment since May. I’d evaded it a week before and then again at the birthday party. It was always masked as anger, frustration—something I thought useless in approaching. Only then, as my eyes began to water, and my breathing became labored, did I realize the primary emotion beneath it all: sadness. I watched, as Simone was supported, as she was held by the loving words of her grandmother. And that’s when I realized I had left me, 12-year-old me, standing in the front of my grandmother’s trailer. I’d left me, standing there, watching my mom drive off, left behind with an empty promise that we would all be reunited again, soon. Just give me some time to get back on my feet. I knew then, I knew at that moment that the promise she passed along to me was empty, already broken in pieces. I was sad, but that sadness quickly shifted to anger. And that anger, too hot for me to live with, quickly turned into something more manageable: productivity, efficiency, achievement. I got good at doing her job. Waking myself up. Telling myself, even after my alarm went off, Okay, you can only lay here for another 5 minutes. Homework? I knew just how much tv I could watch before I had to get my school work done. I did my own laundry and folded my own clothes. With all the doing, with all the ways I had learned to be productive—there was still something unfinished: I hadn’t grieved for me. I hadn’t grieved for all that I had lost, for the moments I wanted to linger a little while longer. And now, all these years later, I was being brought back to where I had left me standing.

—

I closed the book and tossed it to the side. I thought more deeply about the last two sentences, “A second infancy. A reinvention of self.” And that’s when it came back to me. That feeling. That reminiscent feeling. It was the day my siblings and I were baptized. I remember, distinctively, the way the sun was shining right before I was instructed to close my eyes.

I slid further down into the tub until my face, this time, was fully covered by the water. When I came back up, I was standing behind me. I was standing behind me in my grandmother’s yard. I saw me, not just watching her drive off, but waiting for her to come back. I saw myself at war with what to feel and how to express it. I stepped in close, closing the gap, the space between us. I wrapped my arms around me and gently affirmed: It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Let it out. Let it all out. We both fell to the ground, to our knees.

When I went to stand up, it was just me. I turned to look behind me, and saw 12- year-old me joyfully skipping away. As I turned back around, I felt called to look down at my feet. I was bare footed. My feet were muddy, yet somehow radiating a beautiful golden color. I heard them speak: You can trust the ground you walk on—the places life has and will take you, the lessons your soul is here to learn. I looked up towards the sky. The sun was shining. I understood clearly. I am here, I am fully here.