I Don’t Know How I Got Here (And I’m Learning to Be Okay With That)

I could trace the steps, if you gave me enough time. Somewhere in the last 6,000 days, life took me everywhere it wanted to go — and I let it. I let my days be ruled by this person’s promise, that person’s plan. For over 6,000 days I smiled like I was enjoying the ride, all the while wanting off. Wanting to go back home to my mom’s townhome in Greenwood, Indiana. Back to 2009, back to the version of me who could still say oh well, I tried — and mean it restfully, not in defeat. I just wanted to nap, regroup, and find my way again.

In 2009 I was one year removed from walking across a stage at a commencement I don’t remember, collecting a diploma I can no longer find. Four years of faces I can’t recall. Classes I power-walked across IU’s campus to reach. A transcript that proves my body showed up to exams and lectures that my brain has since filed under not important.

I suppose it isn’t entirely fair to say I never enjoyed the ride. It’s more accurate to say I only know it in pieces.

Whether it’s undiagnosed Inattentive ADHD or just the particular way I’m wired, my mind holds on to nature and lets almost everything else go. I can tell you the exact shade of orange that one tree in Brown County State Park turned in the fall. I can describe that steep drop-off at Turkey Run if you’re not watching your step. I remember the fishy salt of Oceanside Pier, the drag of seaweed around my ankles walking along the shore, the Marines who jogged past and stopped mid-stride to knock out a few burpees before continuing on. I can still hear the voice of the old man who stopped me on my way up Cowles Mountain to say “It only takes as long as it takes” — but if he sat next to me today, I’d never know him.

I can tell you the layout of Balboa Park. I remember how heavy I felt knowing how many people had stood on that bridge, or the one on the way to Coronado Island, and chosen to end it. I miss Valley of Fire in a way that’s hard to explain. I can describe the koi fish who surfaced at Mission San Juan Capistrano, guide you through Fort Worth Botanic Garden, and tell you how surreal the Japanese Tea Garden in San Antonio feels — like stepping out of your own life for a moment.

But I cannot tell you how I got here.

Or where my keys are.

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I could look back over all of it with regret, wishing I’d held on to more. Or I can thank God for a mind that holds on to His creation — the sound of my daughter’s laugh when she can’t catch her breath, the stripes on a bird’s wings I noticed just yesterday. The beautiful thing about a mind that doesn’t hold on to people is that the heart doesn’t hold on to the heartache that so often comes with them. If you hurt me, I can’t remember. If I hurt you — from the bottom of my brain, I am sorry.

The magnets on my fridge all come with a story. So do the little things lining my shelves. The beauty of not knowing how I got here is that I don’t remember where I was going, either. Each morning I wake up and get to decide where to point my feet.

For now, I’m pointing them toward my daughter’s playroom.

The one I forgot to clean yesterday.

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