03. "i am the sea and nobody owns me."

when covid paused the world, we were all forced to stop and take stock. though those first years are fuzzy, i do remember trying to go back to the things that made me feel like myself: hobbies, routines, old comforts. but no matter how hard i tried, those things didn’t feel right. they didn’t fit anymore. at first, it was fine. who cared if i exercised or started interesting projects or did anything other than binge tv and doomscroll? the world was ending, anyway.

but after a while — as we ventured back out into the world and tried to assimilate to a new sense of normalcy — i realized i was stuck. i’d stopped caring about music. i lost the joy i’d always found in crafting. cooking projects became a chore, and i went on autopilot heating up frozen meals instead. i started to worry.

what if i’d lost those pieces of myself forever?

eventually, though, and very slowly, these bits of myself have begun to return. not as they were, but as something new. a version of me is re-emerging, familiar but different, like an echo in a canyon. i am still me — and yet, i am not. and while i’ve welcomed the shift back-that-isn’t-quite-back, it hasn’t been a comfort. instead, this change has been heavy, strange, confusing. 

who am i, if not who i’ve always been?

change can be good, bad, or neutral. but no matter its shape, it always carries grief. because in every change, something is left behind — an old version of ourselves, an old life, an old way of being. grief lives in that space between who we were and who we are now. grief can haunt us. we mourn the versions of ourselves that no longer exist, the memories we can’t quite touch anymore.

we are always in flux, constantly evolving. in on earth we’re briefly gorgeous, ocean vuong posited that history happens in spirals — we repeat our past trajectories, but “one circle removed” each time. “whether we want to or not,” he wrote, “we are traveling in a spiral, we are creating something new from what is gone.”

our foundations remain, but we shift so subtly and consistently over time that the people we once were become unrecognizable, even to ourselves. this spiraling, this slow growth outward, is the nature of living. it is also the nature of grief.

western culture has not taught us how to sit with grief. instead, we are told to move on by finding closure and forcing our way back to normalcy. but going backward is unnatural. our nature is to change, to flow forward. forcing ourselves into the containers of our past selves will only break us.

instead, we can learn to become flexible, adaptive. to bend without breaking, like the tree that survives the storm. grief doesn’t disappear, but it can become a companion rather than an adversary. we can acknowledge it, give it the time and space it needs, while also letting go of who we were. we can work to honor those past selves while making room for who we are becoming.

when change is ready, it carries a softness — like clay, moldable and alive beneath your hands. yes, worthwhile things can be hard and require effort, but they shouldn’t feel like tunneling through rock. your will can be a firm but warm hand, creating ease, shaping something new without force.

change begins with desire, with a seed of wanting. but the shift itself happens in its own time. and when it does, it feels less like a battle and more like an invitation. the change you seek will soften, and you will sink into it.

in this way, i am learning to ebb and flow like the ocean — to let myself be carried by tides i don’t control. to trust that even as i change, i am always enough. because the beauty of living is this: we are not fixed points in time. we are spirals. we are clay. we are the waves that come and go with each passing phase of the moon.

may we learn to sit with grief and hold ourselves gently as we are shaped by change. may we bend without breaking. may we honor the spiral and trust where it takes us.

stay soft, stay open.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• “Pattern recognition will deceive you, though. History doesn't repeat itself. It rhymes, or it comes back to certain refrains. And I don’t like the refrain that it seems to be returning to right now, because I like being alive and I like my family being alive.” - Margaret Killjoy. If you don’t read her work, I highly recommend checking it out.

• i’ve been seeing so much about not letting ourselves fall prey to the shock and awe tactics of the current administration/not letting ourselves be burnt out by the news cycle — this newsletter by my friend Monica has some advice on how to actually do that (and an excellent title if you need a lol). i found it immensely helpful; i hope you do, too.

• speaking of controlling what you can do: Don’t Just Do Nothing: 20 Things You Can Do to Counter Fascism. maybe start by picking one thing and, as you have capacity, add one more.

• currently reading: as of the moment of writing this, i’m reading My Funny Demon Valentine which is as silly and cute as it sounds (ty to Tropes and Trifles for putting it on my radar!). my hope is by the time this newsletter has launched that i’ve moved onto Bookshops & Bonedust because we’re keeping things cozy right now.

• speaking of cozy, you deserve a pep talk.

• currently watching: not currently, but we watched Presence recently and it’s a great example of a movie that achieves what it needs to achieve in UNDER 90 MINUTES. no, movies do not need to be 2+ hours; yes, this is a hill i will die on.