If someone asked me what some of my most moving memories are, I would give them this list:
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In seventh grade, I was in Quilters, a play full of death and trauma. Not seeing the intense pain conveyed in our acting, the director called the cast together. We sat in a circle on the stage, twelve girls from ten to twenty-two with a box of tissues in the middle. Our gathering eventually was to become known as the “Quilters Therapy Circle,” as our director invited us to share our life stories. I heard stories of bullying, adoption, abuse, and loss. As we opened up one by one, the circle melted together as tears flowed and we literally leaned on each other for support. Yes, our acting improved, but more importantly we also felt an outpouring of love for one another that shone on and off stage.
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I was sitting alone on a busy beach in Hawaii journaling about expanding my world, which had started to feel too small, too safe, and too comfortable. I was interrupted by a scruffy, deeply-tanned man who introduced himself as Badger and invited me to sit with him and his friends. While his invitation came at an opportune moment, accepting it was scary because I was about to sit with total strangers–men with knuckle tattoos (one with “your face” and another with “luvn food” ), eyepatches, serious scars and missing teeth. However, the deep smile lines around Badger’s eyes allowed me to look past his rough appearance. I spent the entire afternoon getting to know them, and within no time at all, my fear subsided. These were real people, with wild dreams, deep regrets, and first loves. I learned about their travels. We discussed one man’s estranged daughter. We spent a lot of time delving deep into Winnie the Pooh conspiracy theories, earning me the nickname “Winnie.” I sang songs with them (we all loved Kimya Dawson, a folk punk singer heavily featured in the Juno soundtrack) and one boy shared with me the recipe for his famous cornbread. Finally, we talked about my father’s death and how it shaped me. Though these men started as strangers, by the end of the afternoon they knew more about me than most of my high school class. I was sad to leave them, but I was promised that it wouldn’t be my last encounter with their little nomadic band.
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The summer before my junior year my mother and I hiked the Inka Trail to Machu Picchu. We jumped right in, believing we were ready for the four-day trek at extreme altitude. Soon enough, we realized that we misjudged the difficulty of the journey. My mother is the strongest person I know, so when it was hard for her, it was no surprise that she kept going. I never heard her complain. I, on the other hand, struggled immensely. I was the youngest person on the trip and started the journey at the front of the line, leading a group of people I didn’t know. People praised my athleticism and strength but didn’t know I was exhausted and constantly breathless. I climbed into my sleeping bag that first night, sore and unsure what the next day would bring. My mom asked me how I felt and I tried to tell her I was fine, but started crying instead. She told me not to seek perfection. I needed courage to turn to the people around me and admit that I didn’t feel capable. I spoke up and asked for breaks. I stopped worrying about what other people thought and walked with the slower group at the end of the line. I chewed on dirty coca leaves the whole trip and did not try to hide my huge gulps for air. I learned to accept my humanness.
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The wind was deafening at the top of the hill and any words quickly blew away. We didn’t need to talk with a view like this, though. Our self-proclaimed girl gang, the Maidens, stood over the Golden Gate, able to see the lights of the entire Bay Area sparkling in every direction like fairies. It was magical. Shivering, we cuddled on top of one sleeping bag, another one below us as we held each other close and caught up. Even though we hadn’t had a Maidens night in ages, we easily fell right back into telling each other everything. Noses cold, we told stories and tried to take pictures, laughing and crying. My fingers were numb but my heart felt warm, so full of love for these amazing girls. Later, when we left, hair flying in a billion directions, feet sliding on loose rock, I sent a quick whisper of gratitude out to the night.
I didn’t realize why these days meant so much to me, didn’t see what they all had in common until I heard someone saying they wished they were more vulnerable. I realized then that most of my favorite memories occurred when I opened myself up to other people, whether around a campfire or waiting for class to start. These meaningful connections are so important to me that I have become a bit of a vulnerability seeker. I enter difficult moments with excitement, because I find that vulnerability is really what makes strong relationships and real friendships.
In my day to day, I try to be open about the fact that I have anxiety or feel homesick because that’s not only part of who I am, but it creates the space for others to share what has been hard for them too. I am sensitive, I cry at the drop of a hat, and I used to hate it. But, when I saw how vulnerability led me to obtain deeper, stronger relationships with those around me, I found the beauty in my sensitivity. It can be hard sometimes, but it is still something I work to hold on to. So here’s to admitting when you aren’t okay, and not being afraid to cry when you need to, like when to watching this Extra gum commercial (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLpDiIVX0Wo).