It’s so freeing to walk around and enjoy paintings I’ve only ever seen in photographs. When I’m thirsty, I get a drink. When I’mhungry, I head down to the cafeteria and order a sandwich and a bag of chips.
I feel comfortable being by myself. And that’s new.
For years, I took care of John. And Minnie. I put on costumes and plastered on fake smiles and tried to make sure everyone else was okay.
I never really took the time to take care of myself.
Today, though? I take a bit of time for Claire.
And it’s nice.
My thoughts turn to Miles, as they often do of late when given space to roam. He decided to take back something that was stolen from him.
And I’m doing that too, but in a different way. For him, it was his business.
For me, it was my whole identity.
Which is maybe why, as I finish the turkey sandwich I ordered at the counter in the lower level of the art museum, I start to think of who I am, how I got here, and where I’m headed.
Maybe it’s the drawings and sketchbooks of Degas that are prodding me to be so introspective. You can actually see his process, from scattered lines, to formed sketches, toSeated Dancer. You can’t help but marvel at it.
I pull out my journal, a constant companion now, and I wonder, in the context of my life now, what it all means. I flip through the pages, remembering how this whole journey started—finding this abandoned book in the cushions of my chair.
I peer back through the memories, wondering where dreams start, how they’re formed, and how they are breathed into existence.
I think about the girl I used to be when I was younger.
Born in prison to a drug-addicted mother, she didn’t stand a chance. She shouldn’t have stood a chance. But she was fearless, certain that she could do anything and fueled by the world’s belief that she couldn’t.
And stand shedid. Because people around her helped her learn how. People like my grandparents and my first real friend, Libby.
Later, when life threw her another curveball and knocked her down—I think of Lennon and Lorraine and Zoey and Ava and Miles—more people were there to show her how to stand back up again.
I don’t know much, but I’ve learned that I’m not defined by other people’s expectations anymore. I’m not trying to be something I’m not. I’ve learned that it’s not selfish to take care of yourself—it’s critical.
I’m my own person. I’m a friend. I’m a person who likes new foods. I’m a great texter. I enjoy the occasional comic book convention. I’ll stand on rocks and dance with kids. I’m a mom to an amazing daughter.
I’m a baker.
I’m a business owner.
I don’t wonder anymore who I am without the traditional labels. And even though I’m still learning, I believe in myself a little more than I used to. I believe that I can survive when things get hard because I’ve proven it.
I flip to the page with my list, take my pen, and draw a line.
I want to figure out who I am—apart from a wife and a mom.
Then I smile, satisfied, close the journal, and head upstairs to spend a little more time with Degas.
It’s Thursday now, and I’m in the middle of kneading a loaf of sourdough when the back door that leads to the alley behind the storefront flies open and Miles walks in.
He’s out of breath and immediately starts pacing. A full minute goes by, and he’s yet to look at me.
I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, but he huffs out a breath and scrubs a hand down his face.
“So it turns out that I’m a total hypocrite,” he says, still not looking at me.
My hands are in a big bowl of half-mixed ingredients, and I’m not sure what he’s talking about.
