A Moment For You

In the shower last night, I had a moment. The water was washing over me, and for a moment, I stopped going through the motions.

I paused.

Just for a moment.

I asked myself, am I present? Am I experiencing this life, this moment, or am I just on my way to the next thing (and the next and the next and the next)?

In the shower, I paused.

Instead of grabbing the scrubby and squeezing on some soap and washing off the day, mindlessly, robotically, rote; I paused.

I picked up the scrubby and felt it squish between my fingers.

I felt the cold water still lingering on its edges from yesterday’s shower.

I pressed down with my fingerprints as soap bubbled up from its surface and fell, swirling at my feet before disappearing.

I smelled the lavender and honey of its aroma, a bouquet of blossomy in my own two hands.

I put soft edges to my skin, and watched the lather leave a trail of bubbles across my arms and down my stomach.

I held my breasts with tender care, one at a time, and washed them as if polishing a silver teapot.

I slowed down.

I closed my eyes and relaxed my stomach (why was I always clenching?) and took a breath and imagined that I was standing under a waterfall in the middle of the rainforest.

For a moment I sensed the wind, heard the birds, felt the sun on my face.

I was smiling to myself, for myself.

I let go, I allowed, I was aware, I was present.

In that moment, an emotionally charged memory surfaced from 13 years ago when I was in college. I had been at a party smoking way too much cannabis when I felt the sudden urge to leave. I was uncomfortable, paranoid, my mind was racing down a rabbit hole filled with negativity, self loathing, doubt, fear, madness. I was blaming myself for each and every thought. I left that party and ran back to my dorm room in a haze. I grabbed my shower caddy and thought being in the water would relax me, but the hot water in my heightened state was too much as I slunk to the floor, head in my hands, and cried. I was so distraught in this trance of unworthiness. Life seemed impossible to figure out. The anxiety felt like a weighted blanket I couldn’t shrug off, like it had melded with my skin. I felt trapped.

Last night, I saw my 18 year old self, there in the shower with me.

She was sitting on the floor of the tub, head in her hands, distraught.

I looked at her and said, “I love you, you are safe now, it’s okay.”

I knew how badly she was hurting, and I was finally able to give her the comfort she always felt like she lacked.

She was so young, 18, clouded with beliefs that did not serve her.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” I said to her.

I reached out my hand and she took it.

We existed there in the shower together, for a moment, holding hands.

I took in all of her pain and released it into healing.

She felt so lost, and I assured her, “I know it feels impossible sometimes to trust yourself, but we can do hard things. We can feel all of the feelings and still have unconditional love for ourselves. You are worthy. I am always here with you, I will always shine on you.”

I stepped out of the shower feeling hope. Feeling light.

The past few years of my life, more than I’d like to admit, I’ve felt trapped. Stuck. Cut off. Closed in. Tuned out.

I felt like I was at the bottom of a well where only darkness lived. The sun passed by every now and again, but its light was fleeting. I could not feel it. I felt alone. I would look up through this dark unending tunnel, crying for help, but no one could hear me. I felt like it was my fault I was down there in the first place, and because of that, I did not deserve to be rescued.

It took a long time to realize that I was able to escape, that there was a rope for me to grab from above. It took even longer to realize that I was the one up overhead, I had let the rope down, I was the only one able to save myself.

It took the longest to realize there was never even a well at all.