Collecting Moments
“Collect moments, not things.”
This is a phrase I’ve heard a million times. It’s a cute caption for Instagram or a sweet sentiment to share in passing. It’s quaint. Charming. Trite.
For me, it’s where I am at present. It’s hard to believe I’m anywhere at present, especially here. Goodness knows I never thought I’d be here, but I am: collecting moments.
I love my life. I savor every moment. I celebrate. I enjoy. I exist. And for that, I’m grateful,.
Eight years ago this month, my best friend committed suicide. I remember where I was the moment I found out (I often wonder if Joe, my Resident Assistant who was doing a standard room check at that exact second, is scarred from watching me double over on the couch, wailing as I did). It still stings my soul, some days the wound is as fresh as when I found out my name was in her note. I vividly remember straightening my hair three years later, in my first ever apartment, and falling to my knees on the bathroom floor, overwhelmed with how deeply I missed her. After almost a decade, she’s present in every moment of every day, even in the mundane.
I also remember, at the time, wondering how I would ever make it through that pain, something so unlike anything I had ever known. But I did. And then I lost my son.
And I wasn’t sure I would survive. But I did.
And here I am. He’d be four in less than two weeks.
It hurts. But I’m here. Not just surviving, but thriving. Collecting moments.
I wonder if others see me how I see myself these days. I’m here, I’m present. I spent years hiding behind, hiding under my grief. It enveloped me. Some days, it still does. At times, it’s a weighted vest pulling me under rapidly rising water. It’s deafeningly loud. Others, it’s a whisper. But it’s always there, ever-present.
Now, though, the darkness it brings only magnifies the light. It gives me grace. It gives me gratitude. It reminds me of nights spent watching “The Hills” on MTV and texting Hannah during commercial breaks because we couldn’t tear our eyes from the show while it was on. It reminds me of running into her on campus with my orientation students and proudly introducing her as “like the most amazing person ever,” of reading her poetry and being moved to tears. That same grief, same darkness, reminds me of the light of Camden’s smile, his smell, the feeling of his hair tickling my cheek. It reminds me of sitting in his nursery closet waiting to meet him for weeks, looking at all the precious clothes, most of which he never even wore (and that now sit carefully tucked away in a closet upstairs, hopeful of being worn some day), of having him wholly and totally to myself for 99 perfect days.
Often, it’s easy to love what’s in front of me, these moments of my life (I mean, incredible husband, amazing family, beautiful career, unbridled opportunity — who wouldn’t?). Other days, I struggle even to breathe, let alone, to put one foot in front of another. But every day, I’m thankful. For my son. For the years I had Hannah. For making it through when I thought I’d follow her lead.
Here’s to millions more moments woven together to build an even more beautiful life.
This is a phrase I’ve heard a million times. It’s a cute caption for Instagram or a sweet sentiment to share in passing. It’s quaint. Charming. Trite.
For me, it’s where I am at present. It’s hard to believe I’m anywhere at present, especially here. Goodness knows I never thought I’d be here, but I am: collecting moments.
I love my life. I savor every moment. I celebrate. I enjoy. I exist. And for that, I’m grateful,.
Eight years ago this month, my best friend committed suicide. I remember where I was the moment I found out (I often wonder if Joe, my Resident Assistant who was doing a standard room check at that exact second, is scarred from watching me double over on the couch, wailing as I did). It still stings my soul, some days the wound is as fresh as when I found out my name was in her note. I vividly remember straightening my hair three years later, in my first ever apartment, and falling to my knees on the bathroom floor, overwhelmed with how deeply I missed her. After almost a decade, she’s present in every moment of every day, even in the mundane.
I also remember, at the time, wondering how I would ever make it through that pain, something so unlike anything I had ever known. But I did. And then I lost my son.
And I wasn’t sure I would survive. But I did.
And here I am. He’d be four in less than two weeks.
It hurts. But I’m here. Not just surviving, but thriving. Collecting moments.
I wonder if others see me how I see myself these days. I’m here, I’m present. I spent years hiding behind, hiding under my grief. It enveloped me. Some days, it still does. At times, it’s a weighted vest pulling me under rapidly rising water. It’s deafeningly loud. Others, it’s a whisper. But it’s always there, ever-present.
Now, though, the darkness it brings only magnifies the light. It gives me grace. It gives me gratitude. It reminds me of nights spent watching “The Hills” on MTV and texting Hannah during commercial breaks because we couldn’t tear our eyes from the show while it was on. It reminds me of running into her on campus with my orientation students and proudly introducing her as “like the most amazing person ever,” of reading her poetry and being moved to tears. That same grief, same darkness, reminds me of the light of Camden’s smile, his smell, the feeling of his hair tickling my cheek. It reminds me of sitting in his nursery closet waiting to meet him for weeks, looking at all the precious clothes, most of which he never even wore (and that now sit carefully tucked away in a closet upstairs, hopeful of being worn some day), of having him wholly and totally to myself for 99 perfect days.
Often, it’s easy to love what’s in front of me, these moments of my life (I mean, incredible husband, amazing family, beautiful career, unbridled opportunity — who wouldn’t?). Other days, I struggle even to breathe, let alone, to put one foot in front of another. But every day, I’m thankful. For my son. For the years I had Hannah. For making it through when I thought I’d follow her lead.
Here’s to millions more moments woven together to build an even more beautiful life.
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