I remember when I was about seven or eight years old, my mom, my sister, and I went to a department store. This was not out of the ordinary; we lived near a mall and went there quite often, so I knew the layout like the back of my hand. To the left was Bloomingdale's, to the right was Sears, and in the middle were your run-of-the-mill shops—some high-end, some low-end, but all the same to me when I was young.
On this particular day, my sister had to use the bathroom, so my mom told us to go together and stay with each other. She was older, so the two of us together trekking to the bathroom wasn’t exactly an extraordinary feat. Julia and I made our way over, and she locked me in the stall with her. She began to feel unwell, so she told me to look for my mother. Me? Alone? I had barely gone to the bathroom by myself, let alone ventured into the multi-level department store to look for my mom. But she insisted, so I crawled under the stall door, opened the door to the main floor, and started my search. I spotted about three women who looked like her but to no avail. I was losing hope; seconds turned into minutes, and minutes felt like years. I worried that I’d never see my mother again and that I’d have to adapt to a life on the streets (or the aisles) of Macy’s.
As I started to hyperventilate and unravel, I spotted a woman with a name tag. I told her I was lost, and she took me to the help desk of the store, where she announced “Lost Child” over the speaker. I waited beside her with my head hanging low. When my mother and Julia finally showed up, they didn’t seem worried at all. They clearly didn’t understand the immense stress and terror I had just been through. I hugged them like I had been lost at war—when, in reality, I had just been stumbling around the men's shoe department. I cried as they told me I shouldn't have wandered off in the first place.
You may be thinking, “Lily, what the hell does this have to do with anything? I also got lost as a kid; I don’t need to hear your sob story.” And you’re right. It’s common, and I’m not special. But the way it relates to you and me is different.
If you're a reader of my previous articles, you know that I've had some difficulties over the past year or so with my path, identity, insecurities—you get it. I’ve been struggling, but for a girl with endless words, I couldn’t find the right ones to explain what I was feeling. But today, while I was talking to my older sister Dory on the phone, I blurted out something that made more sense than I’ve made in a long time.
She routinely asked how I’ve been, and I responded with updates on my triumphs and failures, explaining how I’ve been trying to maintain a semi-positive outlook on it all. She tried to relate, but couldn’t exactly grasp the feeling given our age gap. Then I said, “Do you remember the feeling of being lost at a store with your mom?” She hummed in understanding as I continued, “I feel like someone brought me to a store, held my hand the whole time, and then suddenly vanished into thin air.” I feel like I’ve been given the illusion of freedom and independence but not truly awarded the opportunity until recently, and with it comes a quick punch to the gut and a push into the deep end of the pool. It’s confusing to describe, but that’s the first way I’ve found that captures it.
In yoga, there’s a practice called fire breathing. It’s used to warm up the body and regulate the nervous system. To initiate fire breathing, you breathe in through your nose and out through your nose, but with a restriction at the back of your throat. The first time I did it, I almost had a panic attack because it feels like you can’t breathe when, in reality, you’re in control and can turn it on and off. This phase of life feels like fire breathing. It feels like I can’t breathe. It feels like I don’t know how to turn it off, but maybe I do but I don't, but I do-but I can't.
Once again, I don’t mean to be a downer. I have so many beautiful things in my life. I’m healthy; I have the beach and beautiful weather; I have family and friends who love me; I’m fortunate enough to afford the things I need. It’s all rainbows and butterflies in reality. So why am I having trouble breathing? Why do I feel like a kid who forgot their parent’s phone number and can’t call home? Why do I feel like my mom forgot to pick me up from daycare? Why can’t I find my way back to where I started?
Sincerely Yours,
Lily
Comments