Tiny Sparkling Particles
I wish I were one of those people who came out of the Pandemic renewed, re-juved, and ready to show the world my new self... instead, I came out like I survived war, lived four lifetimes, and I think my hair is still smoldering from the times I set it on fire making dinner. I don't know what I thought lockdown was supposed to be, but whatever I imagined, it certainly was not me cooking meals all day and playing teacher while also still being wife and employee. Given all the time we had, I thought I would settle into a routine where I would find time for myself. But there was no time.
I'm honestly not sure anyone can even see me right now. They definitely can't hear me screaming. My mind doesn't shut off. There's some sort of code programmed inside my body running thoughts, ideas, and action items as movie credits through my brain and across my eyelids every time I attempt to power down.
Am I the only one startled by the fact the world didn't stop spinning for a year?
I was suspended in time, floating weightlessly, dissolving into the atmosphere, and then we came back outside and all of it was still there. It was still the same. And while I'm grateful I did not die in the pandemic, I did not survive, and I don't think anyone can tell.
All of the survivors are vacillating around me, shouting about how great it is, and I'm not even here. I'm floating while the world rotates, quickly. Picking up speed. When I lay me down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep, and that my children don't notice I'm empty, there is no rest. I don't know what that feels like anymore. Was there a time when I ever felt joy? Pure, untouched joy that came from just existing and breathing in a beautiful world? I'm trying to piece it together, but my childhood is a series of clips where I grew up too fast. There's a memory of it somewhere. Tiny sparkling particles made of moments where I felt complete serenity and satisfaction. Where my body felt anchored by gravity and love.
I spend all of my energy trying to stay connected to my body and cover the patches where my hair is thinning. We have bills and children, and they cannot grow up too fast or there will be generations of us walking around who didn't survive.
Note from the Author: This felt particularly relevant to publish this week as we enter yet another elevated realm of discourse around what defines our humanity. Meanwhile, life goes on and we are all still living it. I wrote this piece based on a text exchange I had with my muse "M". This was a character exploration and in Week 4 this is the topic I'm exploring. Please join me.
Journal Prompt
This week's piece explores how we emerge from collective trauma, suspended between survival mode and desperate attempts to remain anchored in a world that didn't stop spinning. Between acknowledging our battles and choosing to keep moving forward, we're writing blueprints for those who come after us. This reflection isn't about perfect prose - it's about recognizing where we are while consciously choosing how to move forward, creating healing spaces in our words for future generations.
Weekly Deservitude Prompt: Think about the invisible weight you carry while trying to stay present in your daily life. How do you navigate between necessary survival mode and the conscious choice to keep moving forward? For those of us who process life through creative work - how do we transform these raw experiences into stories that might help future generations find their way?