First. Don’t take this the wrong way but I will no longer start these letters with Dear so and so. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m experiencing a shift . . . one of many, which tends to come with my growth spurts. And. Whereas before, I used to quell some of these kinds of shifts back when I sought approval, back when I didn’t want to disappoint. Quelling or stuffing feelings is what I used to think was the responsible/adult thing to do.
Well.
Now, I don’t waste time worrying about what someone might think about one of my shifts. Now, I am my own priority. Now, I recognize how precious and short life is so I can’t be wasting any of it trying to please large swaths of humans the way I used to. Now, I am wholly accepting of the fact that not everyone will be pleased with every little thing I do—and that’s okay.
Second. A writerly quirk about me. Whenever I have a newsletter idea, before I even write one word—not every single time, but quite often—I choose an accompanying picture first. Is that weird? Who knows. I’m pretty sure it’s the artist/photographer in me.
I enjoy photography,
not only as a way to document special moments, but also as an art form. I used to love Instagram when it was new on the social media scene—seems like a hundred years ago now—when it was still pure, when it was still primarily focused on photo sharing. Before it became the algorithm-leaning, performative cesspool that it is today. Anywayz! I chose the above picture first before writing this essay, is what I am saying.
A survival tool
Disappearing, withdrawing from people and situations is my superpower: it’s one of my great strengths. I didn’t always see it this way, as a strength or superpower. I used to feel helplessly annoyed with myself whenever I would panic, have a kind of private freak out, and start backpedaling away from things. I used to berate myself. Like, what the fuck, Mia? Why can’t you be normal?
I used to believe that to disappear or withdraw—whenever I was faced with overwhelm or disappointment or whenever I was loaded with anxiety—was to come across as looking flakey and/or unreliable. So, I would try—not very hard, mind you—to stick around, try to see things through to their end. Even in instances when sticking around, seeing hard/uncomfortable things through to their end made me cry like a lost toddler.
Now? I’m like, nah! Fuck that.
Along this writerly journey—especially in the past seven years, since job-quitting—I have become very intentional about routinely checking in with myself. Asking if I’m okay. Asking where my heart is on each matter I am facing.
As time passed, as I increased my self-check routine, something magical happened along this journey—I fell in love with myself.
It’s true: I. Fell. In. Love. With. Myself.
Now, I know how that might sound. And the only reason I’m about to explain why I would say such a thing is, not because I think some people—self-hating fools, deeply brainwashed by a toxic patriarchy—might judge or laugh at me. It’s because I want to normalize falling in love with oneself—as in, healthy emotional self-prioritizing—for everyone within striking distance of these words. I want to explain how good it can be for anyone with a formerly broken heart, for anyone who might think falling in love with herself (or himself) sounds too weird to consider. It’s not.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, I want you to know that you are worthy and deserving of unconditional love. As human beings, we have an immense capacity for love. So, why not give it to ourselves first?
I am (at long last) proud to announce:
I came from an extremely violent, abusive, and toxic childhood overseen by two psychologically damaged/broken adults known as my parents. Proud because both my childhood experiences and the way my parents raised me largely informed the woman I became. I am no longer ashamed of my beginnings, no longer ashamed of my past.
Life difficulties happened to me, just like it does to all of us in varying ways.
I somehow managed to find my way. I became a deeply empathetic and remarkably wise adult. True, the roads taken in early adulthood were riddled with pain and difficulty because most of the time I had no idea what I was doing. Because most of the time I was too socially inept and unprepared to make good choices. But eventually, I did start to figure some things out and eventually, I began making better decisions.
Here’s the thing: I will always be haunted by a miserable childhood past. I will always live with the trauma of that earlier period of my life. There will always be triggers that can throw me back as easily as one tosses a bag of beans into the unpredictable and shadowy memories of heartbreak. Grief from loss or trauma follows all of us in whispers (and sometimes in shouts). That’s just the way Life is. So when it comes to taking care of myself, when it comes to showing myself love, I remain vigilant.
Not only was my father violent to my child-body to the point of routinely breaking skin and drawing blood, he was also domineering over my personhood. He controlled our household in the same way a wolf circles prey. I felt like a prisoner. Every day of my girlhood was spent plotting my escape, counting the days until freedom.
When I first saw that cute little kitten pictured above, I was immediately struck with how much the photo reminded me of my time as a girl staring forlornly through the windows of our home. How helpless and trapped and powerless I regularly felt.
I will never again return to such a suffocating existence.
I won’t hustle. I won’t pile on in my schedule. I won’t do anything that makes me feel sad or miserable or overburdened. I will stay true and I will stay free. No one is coming to save any of us. I learned to stop waiting for The World to right all the wrongs. I learned to simply keep moving; and to enjoy the journey because we only get this one precious life.
Now, here I am, Beautiful Reader, in the midst of another of my returns to an interrupted life. Coming back from an entire year of tiptoeing across a field of landmines—fucking triggers were everywhere. My family needed me this past year, so I showed up, and I did whatever was needed to move us through shared reckonings and reconciliations. No one will ever truly understand how hard that was for me—as the oldest, as the one assigned to shoulder the family’s collective weight, as the one who stopped her life to get on a plane (twice!)—how many tears, how overwhelmed, how helpless, how much I choked on old childlike fear.
Glimpses. That’s all anyone ever really saw. Mere glimpses of what I was going through, what I was feeling. Brief temper flare-ups, stony silences, jaw clenching—that was basically what I let people see. But clenched and twisted guts, bad dreams, and flashbacks (to name a few more non-fun facts). Those all happened in private.
So, this is how it gets done: how I return to writing here. Small steps. A little at a time.
I owe nothing to anyone. I owe everything to my girl-self. She fought for her life and survived in order for me to exist in this moment, now a 58-year-old woman, thriving instead of just surviving. She occupies the only hill I don’t mind dying on.
Thank you for being here and for reading. I’ll be back again soon. Keep shining your brilliant light. You being YOU makes this world better.
Love, Mia 💕