to my younger self

we live on a beautifully, misunderstood island. and, we're home.

There is a six year old girl who sits crosslegged on the concrete floor of her grandparents basement. In front of her is a cardboard box of old Italian silk scarves and handkerchiefs. 

Ivory, cherry red, orange, dark blues and greens. 

She doesn’t know who they belong to, whose collarbones and hairlines and shoulders they’ve grazed. What frayed edges were used to wipe away tears, or what bruises they helped to conceal. All she knows is that there is a box full of silk scarves in front of her. She picks up each scarf, one by one, tosses them into the air, and becomes mesmerized with the way the colours and shapes gently fall around her. 

-

From the ages of 21-23, you will wake up everyday at 6 AM. You will take public transportation for over an hour to school. You will be in class from 8 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon. You will then catch the bus at 4:12 PM, and walk through the hospital doors, right before 5:00 PM. 

The nurse smiles at you when you walk in. 

“This is my daughter!” She’ll proudly show you off. She wears a navy cardigan and a loose, grey t-shirt. 

“What a beautiful family.” The nurse uses a cotton pad to dab at the incision, that’s made right underneath her left collarbone. 

“How was chemo?” 

“Oh you know, boring without you. How was school?” 

I loop my arm around hers and we walk together outside. 

I’m currently dating one of the guys in my teacher’s college. It’s a small group of us, and us dating has been the talk of the cohort. 

I’ll fill her in on the latest on the car ride home. 

-

“Do you have this in a smaller size?” It has been three months since, and you are going to a wedding. You are trying on a red one-piece jumpsuit. It hangs off of you, leaving your tiny frame swimming in red material.

The sales associate shakes her head. “Sorry, 0 is our smallest.”

My boyfriend looks at me with a concerned look on his face. “Are you okay?”

All you ever wanted was someone to care, really.

-

“I’ve been meaning to reach out, but I’ve been so busy with…” Is how every conversation with every adult after begins. 

You are 23 years old. Old enough to understand how to function in society, but too young to lose a parent, and far too young to learn that most adults never learned how to meet their emotions. 

You smile and nod. “I understand.” But you don’t, really. You start to feel as though your loss has burdened everyone in some way. You feel as though your sadness has become an inconvenience.

“But you look great!”

Your cheeks are hollow. You bought a new wardrobe, because everything you used to love now falls off. It falls off your shoulders, it falls off your waist.

You’ll learn that concealing your own emotions is designed to make everyone else feel comfortable. But without feeling, you can’t create. Without creating, you’re not living.

And without living, was any of it ever real? What does any of it mean?

So, you learn to rely on yourself. You will become an island, you decide.

A beautifully, misunderstood island.

And maybe you won’t see it then, but living on that that beautifully, misunderstood island becomes your greatest gift. And your greatest saviour.

-

You are 24 years old. Your boyfriend’s brother manages a bar downtown. He’s the black sheep of the family. 

Misunderstood, tattooed, ignored, and oftentimes alone. He’s been through things, too.

You start to notice what people have gone through in the ways in which they look at you.

But there’s a warmth to him. A softness. A kindness. You’ve always gravitated towards each other, especially at family events, because you both really can’t take anything seriously. 

You and your friends start to become regulars at his bar. He’ll wrap you in a hug, come sit next to you and ask you how you are. He’ll bring you chilled tequila and tell you to message him when you get home safe. People are surprised at your new found friendship. 

But there is something comforting about finding someone with the same brokenness as you. Never to fix. That takes away the beauty of it. But to look at each other, and understand that the other person has felt it, too. Pain. 

-

You’ll be out with a group of friends, for the first time, in what feels like years. It’s early spring. You are 23 years old.

You pick at different dishes of Asian food and make your way through spicy margaritas.

It’s just past 10 PM.

A text on your phone reads, “Hi Emily. I hope you’re having a good time. Are you coming home soon?”

Something is off. My friends look worried. 

“Are you okay?” I text her back.

“Yes. Just in a little bit of pain. I wanted to say goodnight.”

My friend reads the message over my shoulder, and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I think you should go.”

You will stop being able to relate to most people in your life, you’ll realize this, too.

In the Uber ride home, you will start to cry. The end is coming. You can feel it.

“Oh, Emily! You didn’t have to come back. I wanted you to stay out with your friends.”

I sit beside her on the cot that is set up in the living room. Her hair is sparse, cheeks gaunt. The stairs have become too much for her. 

“It’s ok. How are you?”

She squeezes my hand. In a quiet voice, she says. “I’m in a bit of pain.”

My eyes will start to water with hers. “Do you want me to get dad?”

“No, no.” She closes her eyes. “Can you stay with me, just for a little while?”

“Yes.” I don’t even hide my tears. “Of course.”

“Can I ask you something?” Her voice starts to shake.

“Do you think I’ve been a good mother?”

My mascara runs and runs and runs and runs.

You will nod profusely. “You have been the best mother. The absolute best.”

You will learn that love is reassurance.

“Thank you.” She holds your hand harder and starts to cry. “You know what I’m going to miss the most?”

I wipe my mascara stained cheeks on the sleeves of my jacket. The pain begins.

“Watching you get ready to go out. I always love seeing what outfit you’re going to pick. I love watching you get all dressed up.”

That night, you will dream of scarves falling.

And in the morning, she will tell you that it’s time.

-

Throughout the years, you will learn that men will break your heart because they love you. It takes a while for you to realize this. That two things can be true: someone can love you so much, and someone can break you just as hard.

You will speak the same language. Pain. They see you. They understand you. But not everyone who understands you, is meant to keep you.

And in fact, they know this. They can’t ever seem to pin you down either, which, you’ll realize, will add to your allure.  Freedom is beautiful, and it is often admired.

But these men. They tell you, each in their own language, that they want you to have more than what they currently got.

So these men will set you free. And you’re going to have to let them.

-

There is a 23-year old girl who sits in the front row of a chapel. She wears a white dress, and holds a single white rose. She twirls the rose in her hand, wondering if she can count how many petals are on the stem.

She watches familiar faces speak words about the woman she knew the most.

A young woman sings her favourite hymn. Follow me to the sea, where I first called your name.

The 23-year old stares at the black and white photo of the young woman wearing white in the centre of the room. In this photo, the woman is leaned up against a brick wall. She wears a crisp white button down. Her hand gently rests on a fireplace mantle lined with books. Her hazel eyes gaze into the camera. It’s a soft, but mesmerizing gaze. Curious, but all-knowing.

Pain, she’s felt it, too.

“And to my daughters.” A soft voice reads out loud. “Embrace the world and all it has to offer.”

-

There is a thirty year old girl who sits curled up on a white sofa of a Milanese apartment. Her hair is long and loose. It’s a quiet Saturday evening. She will start everyday day off with a fluffy cappuccino. She will walk and she will stroll aimlessly through the cobblestones streets. Admiring each window display. The outfits, the scarves, the stories they tell. The stories they will tell.

Home.

At night, the stars come out. A candle flame flickers on the fireplace mantle behind her. A navy blanket spread across her lap.

Laptop open, a journal and pen beside her.

She writes, “to my younger self” in the heading of this week’s newsletter. Over the years, she has built a community. A community from sharing her stories, her feelings, her emotions, her pain, and her heart.

She has found angels in the form of strangers.

By meeting complex emotions. Meeting pain. Telling stories of love, adventure, heartbreak, and freedom. And how they all intertwine. She has created meaning.

That box of old, silk scarves.

Oh, how each one tells a different story. Oh, and how each one falls around her.

To my younger self.

We live on a beautifully, misunderstood island. But, we’re home.