January 7, 2009 didn’t exist for me. A decade ago, I was on a plane to Sydney, Australia. When you’re running away from a lot of things, you choose the farthest place you can swing.
I left on January 6th and when I arrived in Sydney, it was January 8th.
This girl was bopping around the big city by her lonesome:
What a baby! It was also very warm there. Like 110°.
She was likely listening to this song:
She was very lonely:
Trying by adventuring and dancing in kitchens:
But it was the loneliest I’ve been. It was the darkest time in the brightest heat. And for long I looked back on this time—looked back at this 23-year-old—and felt regret and sadness.
That day didn’t exist. Then I wished this time hadn’t existed. This phase. Sometimes I didn’t want to exist. But without this time, this phase, I wouldn’t have known what it was like to really scrap things together from nothing. I wouldn’t have found a love for the writing I love today. I wouldn’t know know my strength. I wouldn’t know deep parts of me that I wouldn’t have tapped for resources. Now I know the path there and the path back.
I wouldn’t know this woman:
[photos by the amazing Catherine Abegg.]
And I kind of like this woman.
And she really likes this song:
I exist. And a lot of who that existence is was formed by the difficult times. Here’s to the huge failures. Here’s to the big swings that are big misses that make waves a decade down the road.