Anami Grace | Made Up Life

Sometimes the grief of my experience feels like looking over the edge of The Grand Canyon, like I could lose myself there. The call of the void that could consume me. And tonight my neighbor sent me a picture of his partner and I working together to make sure that his sleeping kid stayed asleep in their comfy bike nap in their kiddo seat. This seemingly silly scene undid me in the best way, because this precious child will never know the harm that I did. Not only will I give their parents all of my support and love, but they have love reinforced everywhere they exist in our community.

And the tears came, with the threat of drowning me in their sadness. Because they’re all our kids. Their experience of their childhoods has to be our number one priority as a society, and the chasm of sadness that I show up every day as the mom Balloon Girl needed because she is a precious angel baby who needed the home of my motherhood her whole life. Somehow in the time space. Somehow in the journey into my underworld to rescue her, somehow…Somehow…Some way this heals her.

It is a balm to my soul that I get to show up in this way. Imperfectly. As many times as I can. For as many people as I can.

When I peer over that cliff I always end up visiting the memory of the night I was taken from my dad’s custody. And how the next few days in foster care were some of the safest I’d ever felt in my childhood. I was hungry, the social worker got me a drumstick and an orange soda from KFC. It was the best thing I’d ever eaten. My whole soul and body exhausted. I cried myself to sleep in the front seat of her gold sedan. I likely slept most of the time I was there, tired from the harrowing experience of crying out for help until someone came to get me.

And how that fear took root so deeply in my soul, and I never trusted a surprise again – as I tried to use the fire in my soul to protect that sweet, platinum blonde, freckled, blue eyed, chubby cheeked baby who’s greatest desire was to simply wanted to be cherished.

A fear so deeply weaponized in my mother’s hands for my silence so I’d never tell anyone about sleepy time medicine or the flash of the camera capturing my naked body in the vulnerability of childhood sleep. For the fear that I’d be abandoned again and wake up with no parent to care for me.

And the impossibility that I rescued Balloon Girl from that trauma, and now I get to show her love in every act of devotion we share with our human body and to the world.

All the while knowing that we’re all one step away from the unconditional love and acceptance of ourselves, which. Would abuse proof the world.

But instead of focusing on that, I’ll simply jump up for my neighbor when I hold the gift of noticing a need. Fashion a pillow for a sleeping preschooler with a friend I love with such great richness that I want for her to have a few quiet moments of watching her precious kid’s chubby fist dimples move delicately while experiencing a whole soul refreshing nap.

Because, these are the things that make a difference. It’s just the small things that connect us to greater love, and I imagine that having a neighbor showing up to draw chalk with my kid and having their back reinforces that home was never about the four walls that contain us, but about the people who show up so we don’t feel quite as alone in these vulnerable moments of need.

Anyway. Love and light to you all. Take care! Bye.