Past Lives

[inspiration] — this poem is an ode to my inner child and my total self. i have been through many transformations throughout my life, so many that i'm convinced it's to forever be a part of my journey. truly, i've learned that the only constant in life is change. i have an existential crisis almost every day of my life—not knowing why or when or who or how my existence comes into play—but this past year and its struggles have proven again that there haas to be a reason for me. i will continue to use every change, every challenge, every part of me that is refined and even discarded as the momentum i need to thrive and continue this path. i am so grateful for everything i've experienced and everyone i had to be in order to find my true self.

i actually cried while writing this—like, quite a few times i had to compose myself. it’s one thing, you know, to be asked a question and to of course answer it—but in a way that’s like, kind of the rehearsed answer. it’s another thing to really think about and reflect on and gather yourself in each moment you’re recollecting. i was just... truly examining myself and these other women and girls i had been, like... “wow, i was really there and that was really me” and like...—well, it still is me—and i guess that’s the beauty of it: even in all of those different forms and transformations, that tenderness—those childlike curiosities and qualities—it’s all still here. eagerness to learn, to explore, to share myself in joy wherever i might end up.

and then, okay—some things aren’t here anymore either. some things have been outgrown and broken away from. i’ve done and become so many—even little things—so many things i would never have dared to do and be. i’m in awe of myself, but like from the perspective of those little girls and those emerging women from my past lives... ­—and i’m still emerging, right? like there is still so much more about me that i haven’t uncovered. i’m making myself proud right now, and one day i’ll look back and see it fully. for now, i will bask in the work i’ve done and all of the things no one even knows i’ve overcome. i live to see another day, to become another me.

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she watches you—

from the back of the class. bookworm, timid to raise her head or a hand in question, comment, complaint— as your voice echoes across the room. being acknowledged, being heard, being seen, taking up space.

she watches you—

from the table next to the booming speaker, stuffing her face with the only comforting thing: food— as you laugh as loudly as you please, mingling and making magic with all you encounter, dancing without a care.

she watches you—

from a crouch in a corner, observing looks of disdain, the ridiculing fingers. wanting to hide, frozen in a feeling— as you stand as one against many, cemented in courge, sticky with gall, calling to focus wrongs done. to her.

she watches you—

tracing the circles around her eyes, critiquing her nose and her hair, wishing away her pudgy stomach— as you smile back at your reflection, highlight or not, beach bod or not, wig or not, embracing the beauty.

you watch her.

you look back, cracking a warm smile, a gateful glance full of assurance. you haven’t forgotten—and won’t.

you watch her.

you hug from across the way, the distance between the shed skin. a long embrace: “i know. it’s okay.”

you watch her.

her face crunches, her brows wrinkle, her heart breaks. disbelief in these words—but hope in how you bloomed.

you watch her.

she has no idea: the power she yields, the beauty inside and out, the change she is capable of. table shaker.

you watch her.

she watches you. a deep breath, a wipe of the eyes. shoulders squared, gaze steady. “keep going,” she whispers.

and you do.