I have been told that I am a resilient person. I would like to believe that. However there is this nefarious voice that whispers things like "how resilient are you truly, if you constantly feel the need to survive?" Attempting to defend myself against myself rarely lifts me higher than the rock bottom of where the argument begins.
I rework my words constantly in my head because I want to be understood. I can think of no worse fate than being misunderstood or having my intentions misconstrued (I often forget that the lens through which we view the world says about ourselves than others). And while intentions do not excuse us from impact, I do firmly believe that they still must be heavily weighed and considered. Couple that with no longer understanding how I’m supposed to hold space in this world; what I’m allowed to communicate about myself, or how to create anything without being too much of something, and I’m often left feeling like I’m stuck in a holding pattern.
For years when I met new people, I panicked. I swore people were acting weird. I swore that people were giving me weird looks; their smiles seemed to say "I know about you". It wasn't just me being neurotic; people were being weird. Most notably it happened in an office environment. Someone had put my name in Google and found the 700k+ hits of media coverage and quickly shared what they found with others - only after months of whispering did someone finally come forward to let me know.
"I don't care if it's true or not" folks have said. But here's the thing: I care. I care very much. Because uninformed and dismissive opinions are not what interests me, nor are they something I wish to associate with: Ignorance is dangerous. While this isn't something that I hide (or could), it's also not something I lead with. It's not fodder for content, or a punchline - and it's certainly not a form of idle gossip for entertainment. It's a mark that reveals a deep scar that has ultimately changed how I view and move about in the world. It has changed me. If I am honest, there is a constant dull ache that sits just beneath my lungs. Some days I feel it more than others.
But the ship is turning. I can sense it. Just the other day I walked into a room, greeted everyone and cracked a joke. And people laughed. Last night I meal prepped. I am trying to plan out regular meals and do things that bring me genuine joy: such as reading. Last month I finished a book: In Montparnasse by Sue Roe. It's a unique biography of the Montparnasse area in Paris (a rectangular neighborhood that touches the 5th, 6th, and 14th arrondissements) just before the first World War to after WWII. It explores the emergence of the DADA and Surrealist art movements and the eclectic assembly of artists who created and influenced the scenes of both the art world and the neighborhood itself. The book reminded and reaffirmed that to create is and always will be political. A creative life demands nothing less.
When crafting content for the now long gone @amusedblog Instagram account, I focused on getting the perfect, aesthetic shot. After moving to Paris (aka post arrest), I found myself in moments that I didn't want to forget - if I felt happy or content, or a deep sense of gratitude, I would record. The camera was rarely facing me, however - I was more intent on attempting to capture the moment as I saw it so I could return to the recording and re-experience the feeling all over again at a later time. My moments of happiness at the time seemed so fleeting and I was desperate to save them in any way that I could.
What sort of moments? Well, there are videos of violinists playing on the sidewalk, an elderly man in a floral shop wrapping a vibrant bouquet with twine, and birds perched on traffic signs. There are boats cruising by on waterways, and my friend making me a sandwich. There is a six-second clip of clouds. There is another 19 second clip of my fingers resting on a dogs belly. Another of rain droplets splashing into a pool on a cloudy day. There is a two-second clip of cookies on a grocery store shelf. The very first video I recorded on my phone was of a pink-breasted humming bird, perched on a branch of yellow hibiscus flowers
I currently have over 23,000 videos that I have recorded over the last 4 years. Even if I can no longer recall the exact emotions I was attempting to capture in those moments, I do see them as a form of resilience. Twenty-three thousand tiny little moments of where I have paused in wonder, to give gratitude, smile, giggle, or held my breath - afraid to breathe, lest I lose that fleeting moment. It's Joy.
Quick private reels that became tiny catalysts of joy: seeds planted in the soil of my own becoming. They serve as a reminder to me that darkness isn’t always death...sometimes, it’s transformation. The videos have become a catalog of gratitude, moments I can return to again and again. With each new video there seems to be a quiet, steadfast refusal to give up on gratitude. That feels like resilience to me.
