she’s sitting few yards away, dark oval shaped eyes peering curiously from beneath glossy eyelashes that extend from here to forever. her chubby fingers are running absentmindedly through the soft tall grass littered with tiny white flowers. and she plucks stem after stem, creating a clearing that’s all her own. 

“mama?” she says, jolting herself into consciousness and straining her neck to find me, her protector. “right here,” i remind her, hoping she’ll turn back to the daisies. these are my favorite moments, the ones where i get to watch her transform from a bouncing baby into a precious little personality. she’s forgotten about the flowers and clammers to her

feet, 

falls, 

tries again, 

shakes the dark curls from her eyes, and 

finally,

takes

one

clumsy

step,

then

another.

“mama!” she says, smiling wide, the hint of a third tooth finally making its way to the surface. she’s bumbling towards me as i drop to my knees, opening my arms wide to receive her. she’s giggling, the auditory equivalent of dozens of glittery little stars, and she throws herself into my outstretched arms. 

love new york. i love it desperately, and will defend my choice to live here to anyone on any day. i’ve been living here for almost eight years and, until a week ago, i couldn’t imagine myself living anywhere else.

then i went to california. 

now, keep in mind that i grew up in seattle. california isn’t foreign to me and i’ve spent quite a bit of time there, but after each visit, i’d find myself doing the inevitable post-vacation shuffle: “yeah, i liked it but i could never see myself living there." i would come back to my bubble in new york, plant my feet firmly on the concrete and remind myself of all the reasons why i love this city, which i do. desperately.

this time, however, was different. i spent time in parts of california that i had never explored. i took big deep breaths and drove around with the windows down. i watched as the sun browned my shoulders and freckled my face. i felt all the tension in my body relax as i ate well, drank plenty, and surrounded myself with amazing humans. for the first time in my life, i wanted to stay put, wanted to swap concrete for sand, fifth avenue for sunscreen and bonfires, and taxis for a bicycle. i’d put a basket on said bicycle and ride it to the farmer’s market where i’d fill it up with flowers, bring it home to R where he’d be making something fresh and delicious for dinner. 

this fantasy is sparkly. it smells like salt and sand and is forever accompanied by a backdrop of swaying palm trees and deep blue sea. if you know me well, you know that these things used to be terrifying to me, always triggering memories of a harrowing past tragedy. the fact that i’ve been running around new york all day today dreaming of feeling the sand between my toes is so reassuring, so comforting, and it makes me grateful and proud of how much i’ve grown.

i’m getting better. my body and my brain are talking to each other again, keeping up a constant line of communication that lets me explore without fear, but also keeps me safe. my heart is happy and full. i’m in love like i’ve never been before, a love that’s bigger and more beautiful than i ever thought possible. the future is no longer out of my reach, but is rather just around the corner. for the first time in a long time, i’m looking forward to my tomorrows. i wake up hopeful, my big dreams firmly intact.

““[these] are musings linked by my fascination with fate, both blind and blessed, and its many alternatives: choice, chance, luck, faith, forgiveness, forgetting, freedom of expression, the pursuit of happiness, the balm of love, a sturdy attitude, a strong will, a bevy of good luck charms, adherence to rituals, appeasement through prayer, trolling for miracles, a plea to others to throw a lifeline, and the generous provision of that by strangers and loved ones.

I see that these permutations of changing fate are really one all-encompassing thing: hope. hope has always allowed for all things. hope has always been there.” ”

— amy tan, "the opposite of fate"

sometimes, there is quiet. i don’t always understand but i respect it, the same way i would respect your space if you were learning a new song and needed time to focus. we are riding the subway in silence and i let myself go to the place i need to be in tomorrow at 11am for an audition. 

she’s a crazy person, this woman i’m presenting to the world tomorrow, and i don’t want to sink too deep while you’re here watching me. we’re riding the train, passing station after station and i’m holding back tears and wondering why you won’t touch me, and i’m putting entirely  too much thought into the matter and i’m relating with this woman, this human at the end of her rope.

you are the light, my light, my beacon at the end of the road. without you, i am a catalogue of monologues and discarded scripts, a glass of cabernet without anyone to claim it, a song that hasn’t yet found its legs.

without you, i am the girl at the end of the bar, the woman in the red dress, the opposite side of the road. 

tomorrow, i will play a crazy person and, without you, i understand how she feels. without you, i have no compass, no glass half full, no handhold on this journey upward into the night.

i could move forward without you but i’d rather not. i’d rather watch you from afar and let you simmer, let you yell and scream and jump up and down if you must.

i’ll be here through it all, waiting until you look up, cross the tracks, and come back to me.