I have this friend, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without him. I found him while I was out looking for myself in that house on Rollins Street. It was the first week of my senior year in college, and already I had a parking ticket, a chest cold, and a dog bite. We barely knew each other, but he came to the door with a to-go bag of hot pho.
I could leave it at, “The rest was history,” or I could tell you about all the times he stayed with me when I was too afraid to be alone; rode his bike across town at 1 am to come find me at a girlfriend’s house after I called him after having had too many to drive, but wanting to go home. He had been sober for years and I was still learning. He carefully placed his bike in the back of my PT Cruiser like a puzzle piece, drove me home, and slept on the hard couch - maybe even the floor - of my university apartment and I’m not even sure I gave him a blanket.
But he stayed.
Earlier that night, I was at a concert and he was dealing with my baggage - literally; picking up the last of my belongings from my cousin’s at the last minute. They had worn out their welcome. He came to the rescue and I was still learning. Earlier that week, he hauled the boxes full of random odds and ends of my belongings back to my university apartment when it became just mine.
He could carry heavy things, including me.
Instead of saying that someone has “baggage,” my husband says that someone has “packages.” When I first heard him say it, it made me realize that it’s more fitting to say “packages” rather than “baggage.” Everyone has “packages.” Some of us have a few, others have many. And that can fluctuate throughout our lives. At this particular point in my life, I had many, many “packages.”
This friend of mine carried them all. He listened intently for hours as I opened up each one, telling him how I wasn’t sure how it was all going to turn out. Then, being older and wiser (at the age I am now), told me what I needed to hear and not what I wanted to hear - day after day.
Told me to take care of the “little me.” Told me to be kind to myself. Told me that I would fall in the most incredible love, find happiness, and live a long life. Told me that one day I would wake up, feel the sun on my face, and know that it was all okay.
Last December, I went to New York City to visit my best friend, Amy. While I was traveling with new “packages,” six years later, I had significantly less and I could carry them on my own. My plane arrived just after midnight and my car dropped me off on a wet and rainy Gold Street in the heart of the Financial District. Amy was waiting for me in her cozy apartment with the couch all made up, water, and piano music playing softly in the background.
I think planes are the closest thing to teleportation. While I had finally arrived in New York again after three long years, it felt like I was in a different dimension - a parallel life. So much had happened since the last time I was in the city, and then suddenly, I was there again.
Amy and I said goodnight, but before she closed her door she said, “By the way, you might want to close the blinds all the way because the sun shines really brightly through the window in the morning.” I couldn’t help but leave them open. I wanted to fall asleep looking at the twinkling lights of the city.
I woke up the next morning on the first day of December. Before I even tried to open my eyes, I could feel the sun on my face, and I laid there for a moment because I had this overwhelming feeling that it was all okay.
There’s a quote I’ve carried with me through the years from Cheryl Strayed’s “Brave Enough” that mirrors what my friend told me about the moment I would know it was all okay.
“You let time pass. That’s the cure. You survive the days. You float like a rabid ghost through the weeks. You cry and wallow and lament and scratch your way back up through the months. And then one day you find yourself alone on a bench in the sun and you close your eyes and lean your head back and you realize you’re okay.”
Amy had left for work, and I got up and made myself an espresso with her espresso machine that she told me how to use while I was still half asleep and blind from the sun. I sipped from the Ralph’s Coffee mug she had left out for me and got ready for the day. I was nervous because I was about to navigate the New York City Subway System all. by. myself.
I’m just a small-town girl.
You leave early, go the wrong way once, figure it out, and then you get to where you’re going and realize you did it - that you can do anything; that you’ve got you.
I spent the morning with Amy and then she had to get back to work. When we met back up at the end of the day, she was apologetic for leaving me on my own, but I told her not to apologize because that day became one that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.
I walked 40,000 steps, rubbing my toes raw in new boots I hadn’t broken in yet (I knew what I was getting into with that one, and still, decisions were made). I went to borough after borough, with one simple question leading the way: What do you want to do next?
I was on a date with myself in New York City and I wrapped it up in the most romantic way possible - a walk through Central Park and a visit to the MET. Hungry, I stopped at a market on the way and grabbed some sushi and fresh-cut mangos. Then, I walked the blocks to Central Park where I found a bench, sat down alone, and ate my late lunch. The sun was shining and I’d never felt happier, more empowered, or free.
Two women my age walked by and I stopped them and asked them if they would take my picture. “I want to remember this moment,” I said. “I navigated the subway system all by myself today, and now I’m sitting here in Central Park, on a bench, eating some mangos, and I want to remember this moment.”
Because I finally found that bench.
💖 I love this and your sunshine soul. And I love that big bright bold and beautiful city. Enjoy every last second.