Starting Over

Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist, but in the ability to start over. – F. Scott Fitzgerald

In the movies, when our lovely heroine stands at the intersection of some bad decisions, difficult times, and the realization that something has to change, filmmakers gives us some convenient transitions. Cue sad music as a tear rolls down her cheek as she faces her own emotional bankruptcy. As audience members, we know this is her moment. What will she do next? In the movies, we then see subtitles like: 6 months later. Cue One Republic music and suddenly our heroine is looking fabulous, walking head held high, swagger completely restored. In real life, we don’t have a “6 months later” button.  And so, we do the best we can, often lacking a clue for what to do to help the process. And 12 months ago, this is the space I found myself in- alone in a new city, working full time, going to school full time, totally overwhelmed, at the intersection of taking responsibility for my choices, and knowing it’s time to begin again. And so, after 8 hours of class and attending an event at a club in NewCity, an indulgent evening away from school and work spent chatting and laughing, I stand at a corner with my arm in the air. I walk slightly into the street, near a parked car, attempting to hail a cab. I’m startled by the sudden motion to my left of a car coming toward me, honking. An Escalade pulls over in front of me. I stare blankly as the driver rolls down his window and gives me the “what’s up” chin jut motion. And then I know two things. First, I see myself from above for a moment. A girl in a dress. In heels. Standing in the street. And I know. This man thinks I’m a prostitute. Second, this is my moment. What am I going to do? Suddenly I feel like a silly, small girl in a very big city on the island of misfit toys. I jog, tap tap tap in my heels, plopping myself down in the taxi. As we drive away, I’m reminded of an unspoken rule we had in the Chicago lesbian community in the late 90s. Everyone had a nickname. My girlfriend’s was dimplesChris. I was teacherKim. There was cokeheadJes and BoyJes and StripperJules. We were, it seemed, defined either by what we did, or what we were into. Had I stayed in Chicagoland, my name would have likely evolved as my life morphed into more education and career and relationship changes. Leaning my head on the cold window of the cab, I can’t help but wonder who I would be now.

In real life, sans 6 months later buttons, when we find ourselves in the space between our moment and 6 months later, are we vulnerable to this notion that we are not enough as is? Because my swagger didn’t return in the 3 minutes it takes in the movies, am I somehow not good enough? And so, I spend this space wavering somewhere between type A -overachieving, (mostly at drinking bottomless saki and trying not to drunk text), and being a complete zombie. I shoot hoops with my 9-year old niece during her winter break. In all honesty, she shot hoops, I threw a basketball around, mostly missing the net, and eventually resulting in our making a spoof video titled, “10 ways not to shoot a basketball”. Watching my 9-year old niece, I notice the patient persistence she has in improving. I can’t help but wonder: what is it about us that wants to keep trying, keep getting up each time we fall down? Why do people get in a relationship again after having their heart broken? Why do we rebuild our bodies after illness? Why do we believe in a new job, a new life, a new whatever, before we can even see it?

Maybe it is in our nature to believe that things will get better. Maybe our biology dictates these starting over phases in life. After all, isn’t life a continual cycle of growth, death, rebirth? Cells do it. Plants do it. Maybe humans do it too – when faced with those most raw, scary moments, when all defense mechanisms have been stripped away and you’re just standing in your own truth, maybe in the midst of that awful uncomfortableness is when we’re most ripe for growth. Perhaps that is our moment.