As I sat on my bed in a rare peaceful moment, looking out the window to the eucalyptus trees, the movie reel in my mind started to rewind. It hasn’t even been a year since we moved in and yet this room holds both Coura’s birth story and the hardest moments of my grief. I see the wall I slammed my fists into because I had nowhere else for the anger to go. I see the corner where my birth tub was set up, where she took her first breath. I see the floor that has held me on my knees in tears, prayer and in gratitude. I see a space of total surrender.

I don’t think about birth and death every time I’m in my room. In fact, most moments are spent in the everyday. Brushing my teeth, getting dressed, going to sleep.  

Someday, when we move out of this house, this room will be the capsule of some of my greatest expressions of love; for life and for death. My imprint and moments spent here will suddenly be extra-ordinary. Sentimental.

Similar to these years when our babies are babies, or to my relationship with my dad. It’s normal and even mundane some days, until it’s passed me by and soared into the nostalgic realm of “was”. At which point, it turns to gold.

I wonder what she will feel like, the older me. I wonder where I’m at right now in my grief. I wonder in five years, when I look back to now, if I’m further along than I think or just getting started.  

I recently read something on the topic of vulnerability and how you shouldn’t share until you are out of whatever you are in, until you have learned what you need to learn. Will I realize some greater truth down the road and be embarrassed by my ignorance? Will I be doing a word walk of shame? Deep in the throes of a vulnerability hangover?

I started thinking about why I write. I write to heal. I write for fun. I write to connect and make sense of my experiences. I write because I feel like it’s my responsibility to honor the thoughts and narratives that desire to be made real. I write for him, for me, for my sisters and my mom.

When I write and then share, my words become free and weightless. Maybe someone else will grab on to one or two and find companionship and solidarity in my experiences.

Until I meet future me, I’m working on finding magic in the ordinary. Appreciating what I know now and panning for gold in the present moment before it’s gone.