Dusting

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that moving on meant erasing all evidence that something had happened. I didn't want anyone, even me, to see my disappointment, so I would go about removing pictures, emails, text messages, kleenexes, and anything else with an associated memory. But even with all of my cleaning, I still find that heartbreak, like any other strong experience, is like a layer of dust. It can settle on all surfaces of life: work, friendships, workouts, books, nights out, food, furniture. Panicked by it, I used to try and sweep this sad dust up with my proverbial swiffer, hoping I could get rid of it for good. But the tricky thing about dust is that it only stays afloat for a few minutes before slowly settling back down onto things.

I am starting to realize that moving on, for me, has as much to do with staying still as it does with moving forward. Instead of running until I am out of air, I stop and try to settle deeper into myself. I honor the experience that I have had; I honor myself for the effort I put into it. And I try and find the balance between looking inside myself and simply letting everything breathe, unquestioned and unexamined. Finally, I remind myself that I am, and am doing, enough.

This time, I will not be scared of the dust collecting in my corners. After all, when I see people acknowledge their fears or inadequacies, I do not see them as weak, I see them as human. And when people keep going despite all of the things they are willing to admit to out loud, to me, they are the picture of brave.

And maybe it isn't even dust that I am seeing at all. Maybe what I am seeing is just the residue of a life being lived.