One Year

One year ago I was on a plane. I was taking the biggest risk of my life. I knew it would be hard and amazing and fun and scary and thrilling and terrifying and I was doing it. I was flying to Paris, alone, to live for a month, not knowing anyone in advance. I was going to study the Belle Epoch, the expatriates, Hemingway, Anais Nin. I wanted to write and find myself and live far away from everyone I loved. I was miserable saying goodbye to my family and Thomas. I hugged and kissed Thomas curbside at LAX and walked into the airport with my suitcase and tear soaked cheeks. I was ready. I wasn't ready. I wanted someone there with me. I hated being alone but knew I needed this. The flights were easy, finding out on my way to my connecting flight in the Dulles airport via Facebook that my aunt had died was not easy. I didn't even get to hear a voice tell me, I had to read it while rushing to my next flight, trying to reach family telling them I was safe for now. I couldn't let this shake me. I didn't have the emotional energy to deal with anything other than the task I had in front of me - not break down at the thought of being away for a month and to logistically get to Paris in one piece. Once in Paris I realized I knew little of the language I needed, I was frantically looking for a girl I had never met and had no idea how to use my phone on the international settings. I found her, we couldn't figure out the metro. We finally walked the street to our hostel, which was our home. We saw an elderly man fall on the street, hit his head on a curb and bleed profusely. It was hot. We were lost. It was a bustling street with a lot of noise and heat and smells. We made it to the Foyer International Des Estudiantes - student hostel. I got my room number, lumbered up the five flights of stairs, opened my door, collapsed on my bed and sobbed. I took out my pictures from home - Thomas and I slow dancing at a wedding, Thomas and I smiling together and one of my whole family. I put those up immediately to make me feel more secure. I continued to sob for as long as I needed, letting everything come out that I had been holding back. The hot tears stung my cheeks, it was unbearably hot in my room and my face was red and sweaty. But it felt good. I needed this. I needed all of it. I needed to feel broken and lost (physically and emotionally). I needed to feel alone. I needed to be alone. I needed to have an experience of my own, one I could share if I wanted or not if I needed. I had all of that in Paris. It started a year ago today.

Today I am 27 weeks, 4 days pregnant. Today I sit here at 1030am with heartburn and a baby girl bouncing all over my tummy. Today I am worried about getting our room ready, cleaning out corners of the room I've stuffed with unnecessary things, throwing out what we don't need. Today I want to swim but don't know where I will fit that in between working and trying to get other things done. Today I am full of even more love for Thomas, my family and our growing family. Today I am a college graduate. Today I write for fun, for joy, for catharsis, for sanity. Today my family is remembering my aunt who passed but looking forward to the new life Thomas and I created. 

A year. That's all it took. I can't imagine what another year will look like in my life.