My mom’s favorite perfume, and signature scent, has been the same one since I was kid. Though I couldn’t tell you the name or top notes, I would know it anywhere: a smell that will always indicate she might be somewhere nearby, or at least a hint that she might be thinking of me miles away, the universe sending her fragrance along as a sign. Maybe one day it’ll be mine too, a scent transcending generations becoming constant.
My getting ready routine hasn’t changed since I was at least 12 years old: hair first, then makeup, and outfit last. I could never handle the heat of any styling tools after applying any makeup. Leaving the outfit last is just pure indecision; I can’t ever tell if an outfit is right until I put it on and see the whole vision all at once. Obviously, it’s routine.
My dog’s favorite spot on the coach has never changed—the corner with a view through both the front and backyard doors. It drives my mom crazy, the way we can never get the indent out of the cushion no matter how much we fluff and shake it out, the crease unmoving. From simply observing the world through half-lidded eyes to taking peaceful naps with unbelievably loud snores, her place on the couch never moves.
Not everything changes—sometimes they stay the same.
I used to resent sameness; it made me feel small, or insignificant, maybe. It was like if there were no big changes in my life, and every day was the same, I was going to stay the same, and I wanted to be different. Maybe that’s just what a small town will do to you, where everyone lives the same life after high school: graduate, maybe go off to college (but always come back after), find a job, build a family, and then never leave. I never thought this was necessarily a bad thing—I still don’t—but it’s always been the same. It’s just that now, the longer I’m away from back home, sameness doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
Four years ago, I was so eager to get away—the monotonous routine and ideals around me were suffocating more than they were comforting, a tide that has begun to change. Perhaps it’s because now I actually am different than who I was when I left for college, but maybe it’s also the fact that I’m trying to cling to any consistency left in my life as I try to determine my post-graduate plans. So much is uncertain about the future, and so it’s expected that a lot of change will come along with it, but some things will stay the same. Not everything changes—sometimes it stays the same.
My brother’s favorite football team has always been the Seattle Seahawks. I’d love to say they’ve always been good, something everyone wishes for their favorite team, but truthfully, I don’t really know. I know at one point or another, they were pretty good, so his commitment to them to this day is a testament to his loyalty, outlasting any bandwagon that may have existed. Tried and true.
Every weekend, I can count on at least one night where my friends and I will all get together, cementing ourselves to my kitchen table. The attire that we sit down in will determine our plan for the night: strappy tops and Dr.Martens usually indicate a night out or the party of a friend of a friend; oversized sweatshirts, wine and take-out from a nearby restaurant means we aren’t leaving the apartment in favor of long chats and compiling a very serious song queue on my laptop. Whether we ultimately go out or stay in, we always collectively agree that this is the best part of the night: catching up, complaining and monologuing about one issue or another, rewatching our favorite music videos and, often, getting political; all at my kitchen table, always.
My sister has had the same unwavering quality since I was 13. Any movie, any clip or any scenario that is slightly sad in nature, will always leave her with tears streaming down her cheeks. This makes it difficult to open any TikToks she sends my way (they are always devastating), but it’s also what I’ve continuously admired about her. Something I believe in above everything else is empathy—that it exists, that it should be valued and protected and that every person deserves it, whether it comes from me or not. It’s a strength that perhaps doesn’t always look like one. And this is a quality I can always count on her to have and exhibit; she’ll always be the same in this way.
I find myself focusing on these kinds of things, what hasn’t changed, instead of what has. It reminds me of being a kid, when I would lay on my parent’s bed while my mom showered me with warm clothes, freshly dried and laundered. Folding and putting away the laundry was something that could wait until the warmth subsided, leaving a moment to settle under the clean garments. It’s a comfort that I haven’t found replicated anywhere else, but by focusing on the things that have stayed the same, maybe I’ve gotten pretty close.