Relaunched: A Story About Coming Home to Myself
It wasn’t until today, when I was on my way home, driving down a street in my neighborhood, that I realized how many times I had smiled for no reason at all.
“I’m coming back to myself,” I thought.
“Back to the old me who used to be.” I rejoiced.
Twelve years ago, I was twenty-six, full of life — and piss and vinegar. I was happy, healthy, hopeful — and I smiled and laughed a lot. Nothing could bring me down, and if it did, I didn’t stay there very long. I had a beloved husband, a big, beautiful home that we shared with my brother, and a solid job that was my home-away-from-home. Not to mention a decent-sized paycheck every two weeks and zero complaints about the way my life was going.
Every year, for the next twelve years, my life would twist and turn in all sorts of directions. Sometimes like a rollercoaster that climbed so fast and so steep, my heart was sitting at the back of my throat the whole way up. And at other times, that rollercoaster dipped so low, it made me nauseous and almost blow chunks.
The Ups
In 2009, I became a mother, and no matter what trials and tribulations were to come, my life forever changed for the better. In 2012, with the birth of my baby girl, my life improved once again.
