My last post here was in December of 2020. I would love to contemplate where the last 3 years of my life have gone, but there’s no use in that. Somehow, the days can feel incredibly long, but the years just keep flying by with incredible speed. We all know it. We all feel it. Here we are.
A lot has changed in my life since December of 2020. One of the biggest, most profound changes is what has transpired within my nuclear family.
This story is not 100% mine to tell, but I do have my own thoughts and feelings. I do have my own trauma and subsequently my own healing. One practice that has always helped me process various situations is writing. That is why I started this blog a billion years ago when blogs were “the thing.” But even if no one else ever read a word I wrote, I was able to get my feelings out, and for whatever reason, that has been very therapeutic.
I am also fascinated by the human condition. I love learning and reading about people. I want to know their stories. I am genuinely interested in why people do what they do. I love connection and authenticity. I also have found myself in many situations where I would give anything to find just one person who has walked through what I have walked through. So maybe in sharing this, I can help someone, too.
Below you will read a story about fabric and thread, but it isn’t about fabric and thread. It’s about me and someone that I used to know.
A baby is born—
A pristine piece of fabric comprised of many threads.
A thread from Mom. A thread from Dad. A thread from each grandparent, great grandparent, great-great grandparent, and even more threads from ancestors long ago.
Fibers of varying colors and textures, uniquely and intricately worked together to create a woven masterpiece of cloth.
New life.
Over time, the fabric will be altered, cut, transformed. It is inevitable. It is expected.
But the threads will remain intact. History, tradition, love, and loyalty inspire the threads to stay together no matter the shape or form of the fabric.
Time passes, and there’s a pull in One thread. One thread is more stretched and stressed than the others. Taut. It’s no longer moving in unison with the rest. Something is not right. Odd.
The fabric keeps evolving and changing. The threads keep showing up, too. Except One.
There’s a snag. There must be. You can’t see it, but it must be there. There’s no other explanation for the change in that One thread. Maybe a splinter or sharp edge nicked it, but that One thread is knotting up under the surface.
It starts small, but with time it gets bigger. It’s more obvious. Pronounced. When you run your hand over the fabric, you feel it underneath. What once was smooth, uniform, and predictable is now blemished and bumpy. What has happened?
Others are starting to notice, too.
“Hey, have you seen this?”
”I didn’t know if you knew.”
All of a sudden, yet like a slow death — the pull, the snag, the knot — can no longer be ignored. The fabric can’t function as she should. Everything feels ugly, embarrassing, and unfamiliar.
That One thread must be cut loose, freed, released.
Against all original wishes, hopes, and dreams, the One thread is removed. Both quickly and slowly. Both skillfully and crudely. Both meticulously and haphazardly. A paradox where somehow everything and nothing coexist.
The One thread is gone — removed from its familiar casing within that fabric that has been one cohesive piece for almost 40 years. Now only emptiness exists in that space where he was.
The fabric didn’t fall apart, but she’s different.
To most, she looks the same upon casual glance.
To few, she looks nothing like she did before.
But she didn’t fall apart.