The blinds in the bay windows cast light like yellowed ribs. I could count their shadowed lines, but instead I paint the full shape in my mind - a bright rhombus on textured carpet. I let the light stain my eyelids, too, slightly red, as I sit rounded on the hand-me-down futon, pigeon-toed, knees together, chin cupped in my hands.
It’s a way of resting without lying down, and I’m debating the merits of taking a cat nap at 6:29pm.
I resist at first, blinking stubbornly through drooping eyelids. Eventually, I surrender to sleep’s allure, curling to one side, feet spilling off the couch’s edge. The thermostat says 79, and I am feline and languid in the heat, my thinking sluggish. I no longer fight rest.
It’s a theme I’ve been toying with recently - surrender. I’ve written about the transition I’m experiencing and the facets of identity I’m exploring. (In fact, that was my only post in June, a disappointing reality that frustrated me when I couldn’t meet my writing goals and deliver on my promises). A lot of things are important to me, and I would like to get it all done fast. I’d like to finish reading all the books on my list, mail the packages I’ve been meaning to send, go backpacking and do long trail runs and bike rides every weekend, spend quality time with my partner and friends, teach my yoga classes, finish everything up well at work, call my family, learn how to do necessary maintenance on my car, cook healthy meals for myself, publish every week, prepare for my upcoming trips and move across the country, and evolve to the highest version of myself.
I realize that sounds a little ridiculous. Of course I can’t do all of that right now. And of course I’m tired. Yet accepting that is hard because it challenges pieces of identity.
When I was little, my dad taught me to shuffle my feet at the beach to avoid stepping on crabs or jellyfish or stingrays (those who grew up near clear seas may be unfamiliar with this practice, which was necessary in the muddy brown waters of Galveston, Texas). This is what life feels like right now - an uncertain shuffle, toeing lines between a rigid, protective devotion to self-concept and an openness to vulnerability. There are parts of me that want to push through, buckle down, because *puts hands on hips* I can do it if I just try hard enough. Yet a forced life isn’t an authentic one. And maybe right now, the growth doesn’t come from muscling myself into "success." Maybe it comes from risking shifts in identity, adjusting expectations, and softening into acceptance.
On those summer beach days, you had to encounter some risk to make it out to the surf, where you’d jump squealing into waves that rolled over you. You’d time it just right, leaping with the crest, eyes squeezed tight. Then, the salty tide would take you down, and for a moment you’d be powerless, tossed along the ocean floor. When the surge was done, dissolved into foam at the sandy beach, you’d pop back up, buoyant, hair plastered to the side of your face. Your eyes would sting, but already you’d crouch, scanning the horizon for the next big swell that was worth the ride.
P.S.: Thank you, as always, for reading Lil’ Love Letters. It is my joy to have you here. As part of my intention to accept my current capacity while I am undergoing massive transition, I am adjusting my free Substack posts down to one per month. My goal is still to deliver high-quality writing and reflection that in some way resonates, helps you feel less alone, or facilitates connection. Paid subscribers will see a poll below, where they can chime in on what perks they would most enjoy in addition to the one free post a month. I value your input! And to all readers, I appreciate your being here.
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