every change of season, I write down new goals I’d like to reach. summer’s list is usually: “at least 2 camping trips, catch the Perseid meteor showers.” fall’s demands look like: “clam chowder by the coast before it gets too cold, make pecan pie.” in every list for the past few years, I’ve included the intention, “build a stronger sense of self.”
october last year, I was still anxiously adjusting to living alone, but now moving out of the apartment I had shared with my past partner. I was experiencing that kind of paralyzing fear, blank doe-eyes, a bright headlight, stalling at the double yellow lines; trying to navigate an apartment search and make the decision of where to go next. the thing is, I didn’t have any ground to base it on. for the life of me, I couldn’t state an opinion or find some inner resource to draw from. when that well turned up dry, I flailed outward, initiated nervous Facetime nights with friends to virtually tour neighborhoods, asking endlessly, what do you think? desperate calls to my older sister, wondering again if there was any advice that might suddenly part the clouds for me. of course, asking for help was not the problem, but what I actually wanted was someone to decide for me—to point to an apartment and tell me the reasons I wanted it, why it made sense, what I needed to do to get there, and reassure me yes, this is the right decision.
when I say sense of self, I mean the substance of me. opinions, dreams, quirks, boundaries. this intention of forcing a backbone out of myself, even if I had to start small: “yes, I’d love to come with you. no, that doesn’t feel right to me. sorry, I think I need to leave.” initially, I hated living alone, but it functioned as a tinderbox. a day didn’t pass without chipping a little at this wet-block-of-clay-self. what did I want to keep? could I protect myself? when I didn’t have plans, how would I be happiest spending the day? I eased into more time inward; making an entire sheet of tres leches cake because I was craving it. standing ground when I disagreed with someone. finding a new bike route. listening from the floor as a Phoebe Bridgers album repeated painfully for the third time. these smaller things can sound cliché, but it was diligent practice in listening to myself. learning the formula in pulling myself out of insecurity. to be loud and embarrassing and act on what I needed, even later, what I wanted because this space was just a relationship with me. then, the more it grew, my voice found its gravity: “okay, another 10 minutes to pout this doctor’s bill and then it’s Lizzo and dancing it out. I’m going to tell my friend they need to respect my boundaries, or this isn’t going to work. what can I do to best take care of myself right now? it would be hard to lose this relationship, but I know I will still have me, and that’s no longer a scary thing.”
in two weeks, I’ll be moving again. this time, I won’t be living alone. it’s fascinating, to be thrilled at this next chapter, but understanding there’s a part of me that holds grief. (and making sure to laugh with this grief, too.) with every craft, project, and poem, I’ve held it in my hands with pride, thinking “I made this.” now the feeling continues. I look around each corner, like pausing on the sidewalk to watch the sunset. I move books from the shelf, unhook canvas from the wall, jerk another strip of packing tape across the closed mouth of a box—I made this.
I included the stronger sense of self in my goals again for this season, but my pen hovered before recognizing its place. I know I can make decisions by myself. I know how to make me happy. I speak with a firmer voice than my tongue has ever recognized. but none of these are a checked box. it’s important to keep me now that I’ve found her, and in this past time spent, I learned how to draw the outline of myself without blurring into the scene behind me. I’ll place my books on the same shelves that hold yours. find a spot for my Gorton’s fisherman buff in a place you hate it least. we’ll bike together Saturday afternoons and I’ll still make the sheet of tres leches, regardless if I take the first and last bite. tell you, even when it’s hard, what I need. accept that you will do the same. we’ll have dinners we share the duet for Drunk In Love, and evenings I hit both parts alone. how I’ll keep humming along. no matter where I’m living, what I’m doing, or, happily, who I’m sharing this life with.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck