Do you remember when you were in school there was always that quiet kid in class who barely spoke but always seemed to excel on tests and projects? They normally kept to themselves and had few friends, yet aced quizzes and tests. Maybe they were called weird or shy. They were the ones that the popular kids didn’t associate with. I remember those kids in school, mostly because that shy kid who barely spoke was me. Maybe you can relate.

My boyfriend, who would eventually be my ex-husband years later, and I approached several of the cats at the humane society in hopes of finding one that would make a good fit for us in our first apartment in Florida. We had just moved from Pennsylvania in July of 2012. 

Several of the cats were sleeping as we looped the area. Some cats were awake but didn’t seem interested in socializing. Then we came to a small, black kitten. She reached her tiny paw through the bars to play and I gently squeezed it.

Glancing at her identification card I saw the name “Jinx" and she was born June 24, 2012. Her friendliness and energy were infectious as we watched her continue slipping her tiny paw between the bars like she was marking us for her own. It was hard for me to step away to continue searching, but we left and went home.  

The first time I noticed it was in second grade. I was laying in my childhood bed, staring at the shapes that looked like faces on the wooden wall next to me, sobbing. I missed my best friend and couldn’t wait to see her again at school on Monday.

It was Saturday morning and she had just left minutes ago from a Friday night sleepover at my house. The night before we ate pizza and watched Disney movies in the basement, then we played with my collection of My Little Ponies, which I had meticulously spaced out in rows and columns by color on the basement floor. If we slept at all, it was in sleeping bags in front of the fireplace. Mostly we stayed up, giggling and laughing, me not wanting the night to end because of the emotions that would come for me when she left. 

As a child, I couldn’t begin to understand why I felt immense sadness after my friend left on Saturday. I just knew that I missed her and missed what I thought was the best night of my life. 

Recently, I have felt as if I am unraveling. I am watching myself fall apart mentally, emotionally, and maybe even physically. It’s uncomfortable and I am resisting. I want to feel whole again. I want to be in control of my life again. Just when I feel that I have a grasp on this thing we call life, another wrench is thrown into the proverbial smooth running machine. 

I’ve been on an official healing journey for over three years, but really, the journey began many years before that. 

I was probably 12 or 13 years old when it started. I was sitting at the kitchen table in my childhood home, feeling left out, depressed, and envious. Nanny was in the living room with my younger sister and brother, and they were joking and giggling about something. I don’t recall what they were laughing about, and I don’t think it was at my expense, but at that moment I told myself no one loved me and I didn’t belong. 

I’ve written on the topic of finding meaning in things that seem hopeless before, but I wanted to revisit with some more of my own thoughts, insights, and realizations that I have discovered over the last few months.

Hamlet asked the question, “To be or not to be,” but these days, our question can be summed up in one small but powerful word: “Why?” We can’t stop asking it.

Why do people die before we think they should?

Why couldn’t my marriage survive?

Why did I get cancer?

We ask why when we encounter any of the things that interfere with our plan, our health, and our dreams for our future.

That’s where faith, hope, and sometimes religion comes in. We need hope for better things to get through the rough times, the sad times, the confusing times, and the painful times. I believe that without hope, people can lose their will to live. But hope is just one part of the “Why” equation.

Throughout my personal journey towards growth and healing, there is one theme that continues to crop up on my radar. That theme is fear. Fear is arguably the one emotion that prevents human beings from accomplishing their goals, fulfilling their dreams, and achieving everything they want tin life.

Fear has been categorized as an “opposite.” It’s the opposite of love. The opposite of hope. The opposite of success. Fear holds us back. It tells us we aren’t good enough or that we will never achieve the kinds of things we want. Fear puts doubt in our minds and makes us stay the course. Afterall, life isn’t perfect and it was never promised to be perfect, but at least we are alive and healthy with the way things are.

Fear makes us cling to certain outcomes for our lives. We should stay in an unhappy relationship. We should continue to speak to our toxic friends because they have been part of our lives for years. We should continue to take the criticisms of our family members because that’s just the way it always has been.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly things can change. Over the course of a year, you could be living in an entirely different state. In just a month you could be working at a different job. In a week, you could welcome someone new into your life. And in mere moments you could lose someone you love. Your life is flipped upside down. Anyone who has ever lost someone they love knows exactly how this feels.

Time is constantly pulling us along, always changing, always putting new opportunities and new people into our lives. But it’s also taking things away that we might hold onto tightly. We all have these pictures of what “the ideal” is, the myths we tell ourselves when we find the perfect job, the perfect mate. Attachments are dangerous, yet they are necessary.

One night, I had an anxiety attack. I was in my apartment, with just my cat, Jinx. I had just indulged in one too many glasses of wine and a depressing amount of ice cream, trying to stuff down my sadness and quell my racing mind. I thought of reaching out to someone, a friend or my sister, but it was too late. I was inconsolable. I wailed and cried, and I couldn’t breathe through my nose. My shallow breaths caused me to panic even more. I heaved and wailed with my arms wrapped around my shaking shoulders, and tears stained the floor and soaked two dozen tissues. I couldn’t save myself from drowning in my own tears.

I kept chanting over and over, “Please come back to me, please come back. I promise to love you better. I promise I’ll love you right. Please just come back to me.” At that moment, there was nothing else in the world I wanted more than my husband to be in my arms.

After a few minutes of this, I had a sudden and uncontrollable urge to look at his picture. I hadn’t wanted to go back there since the day he asked for the divorce. It was too painful to see what we used to be. But for some reason, I wanted to see him on this night. I rummaged through my closet until I found what I was looking for: a mound of pictures of us in a Walmart photo envelope His was the first face I saw when I opened the pack. They were mostly on our wedding day, and again, I crumpled into tears, clutching the pictures close to my heart, promising I would love him better if he would come back to me.