Cool, You Want To Feel Grounded? Start By Being Present.
I have a tendency to sit on couches, wrapped in throws that once had a home in a Target aisle, and burrow into narratives. I start with a recent moment that ultimately triggered a deeper thought — the last time I was in Chicago, for instance, I got a text from a friend who favored alcohol too much and in less than a nanosecond I was pushed down a slide, knee deep into a ball pit that had me drowning in all of the ways that I’m not okay having someone in my life who is so dependent of alcohol.
One hand was on the Wii control, the other was hidden under the covers. I remember trembling slightly, my body aware of all the ways the realization put my walls up. My best friend next to me didn’t catch on to the physical gestures but she did latch on to the words.
I spiraled out a narrative about my personal life that I very rarely tell. She sat, listened and then did what she does best — she gave me the space to figure it out on my own and the reassurance that she wouldn’t leave my side, figuratively/literally, while I did.
Chicago was one of the first times I realized just how deeply I’d been yearning for roots.
Someone…something…to dig into. A place to be grounded in when I find myself in ball pits.
In therapy the conversations always go back to, ‘where I am versus where I want to be.’ Over two and a half years I’ve learned to not hate the space between both realities. One is and one will be, neither are signs of my incompetence. Instead they’re both reminders that I strive and achieve. In my own time. At my own pace.
Roots find a home when you give them space to set, I’ve learned. But to give them space you have to get rid of the shit that no longer belongs. Digging for space means digging into layers of yourself that you never thought existed, that you never let yourself stare at.
For me they varied — it’s how disconnected I can sometimes get from the reality that I do not have a mom, it’s how defining my role as a caregiver has always been and how it takes deliberation to untangle myself from the more limiting parts of it.
Those added layers, though, they only became visible after I felt safe in other areas of my life.
I learned to leave myself breadcrumbs when it comes to my anxiety. I may not be able to stop my symptoms from manifesting but I’ve learned to hear the door close once they’ve already walked in.
It’s in how I play with my hair, the way I forget to exhale, the way words scramble in my mind and bury me whole. In an effort to not have the words scare me anymore, I’ve tried reframing them as friends. They let me know that something is wrong and that awareness is the first step to a calmer, safer mind. In return, I try not to be passive aggressive about their presence.
The last time I thought I was going to have a panic attack, my boyfriend had his arms around me and listened to me as I told him I was anxious. Then he listened some more when I told him I needed to just remember to breathe. Then he started deep inhales and exhales, and with each one I came to terms with a couple of things.
For one, there’s something to be said about someone who chooses to breathe with you instead of change you and drag you away from the moment.
Then there was the bigger realization — I love myself. A lot. Enough to know that I’m rooted in myself in pretty significant ways. I don’t ignore my body anymore, if I have trouble breathing, I owe myself the time and space to remember how to breathe again.
I have the roots I’d been praying for, I just had a hard time seeing how deep they were until that moment.
I don’t know how I got here and I may write my way backwards to figure out how it happened, but it did.
At this point I have to believe it happened in small intervals:
When I saw the couple fighting outside of the bar a couple of months ago and realized I never wanted to have that kind of distance in a relationship, with anyone.
When I sat on the roof with my best friend, overlooking parts of Brooklyn I’d never seen, and realized that just that week I’d given myself my best chance. Simply by choosing to live outside of myself instead of in my head.
When I sat looking at the Jet d’Eau in Geneva on my last night there and realized that those last four days belonged to me and the only person who could take them away from me would be me.
I know myself well enough to know that I’m always going to struggle with the “where I am vs where I want to be” narrative. It’s the kind of line that tells you stories that you’re not measuring up, that there’s more for you to give than the all you’ve already placed before you. To beat yourself up for the fact that the line pops into your head would be to beat up the part of yourself that’s vulnerable and scared.
And that’s not what you do to a friend who’s scared, to a friend who’s trying…you hold their hand, tell them you’ll figure it out and that you love them for who they are, not where they are.
You look in the mirror, stare yourself dead in the eye, and remind yourself that you have the will to keep going, to ask for help when you need it, to love the parts of yourself that live with you now. Because those are the parts that will eventually scooch over to make a home for your roots.
For that you’re grateful to where you are and where you’ll be.
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I’m the founder of toodamnyoung.com. I’m a writer, editor and entrepreneur. You can find my personal essays on Medium + other writing on MTV, Forbes and PopSugar Latina. I also host Creating Espacios, podcast for the next generation of Latina trailblazers.
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