New Beginnings vs. False Starts

Every time I get a new beginning, it turns into a false start. Let’s reframe that. 

Every false start is a new beginning. That’s better. 

When I was little, I loved moving. And we moved a lot. I didn’t really understand it then, or think about why we moved so much, but I also wasn’t really one to ask questions. I don’t remember any big talks about change or comforting hugs as we left one home for another. It was simply a part of life. Every couple of years we moved from this side of the neighborhood to the other, one part of town to the next. Change was fun. Fresh starts brought that sense of new shoes on the first day of school or unwrapping a gift on your birthday. It was all full of opportunities and open doors and an excuse to set up your bunkbeds in some weird new arrangement. Again.

As I’ve gotten older, the moves have gotten harder. This last move, I played that numbers game I know I should never play where I counted all the times I’ve moved. 18. Not including all the moves back and forth in college or the seven-month stretch when my roommate and I gave up our lease to house-sit, teenager-sit, and live in more places than our gypsy souls could count to pay off student loans and save toward dreams.    

What I love is that moving feels like a new beginning. A fresh start and an opportunity to set new rhythms, create new goals, and begin a new chapter.  

What I love is that moving feels like a new beginning… What I don’t love is when you’ve barely scraped yourself up off of the ground after being run over by a the moving truck just long enough to unpack a few boxes and then life hits.

What I don’t love is when you’ve barely scraped yourself up off of the ground after being run over by the moving truck just long enough to unpack a few boxes and then life hits. Bills are due and finances have run thin, an unexpected flu keeps you in bed for days on end, kids need picking up and groceries need running and friends need calling and the dog is barking the world is falling apart and did I register to vote and rhythm? What rhythm? I’m just trying to survive. 

I’ve had a lot of false starts these last few years and to be honest, it’s been really difficult. Even here, in this virtual space, I’ve started and stopped more times than I can count. Not stopped--been hit by life. And it hurts. It feels like failure, like I’m letting people down. Like I’m letting myself down. Am I wrong to even be here? 

But here’s the thing. I keep showing up. Because that’s all we can do. Sometimes the rug gets pulled out from underneath of us. Sometimes people need us or we need to do what we can to get bills paid or get our bodies well. But we keep showing up. We keep trying. We keep rearranging the furniture to fit the house or the room or the tiny studio we’re in. 

But we keep showing up. We keep trying. We keep rearranging the furniture to fit in the house or the room or the tiny studio we’re in.

And people have shown up for me too. They’ve paid my wage, my way, or my bills. They’ve brought me flowers or Postmated me dinner or dropped groceries off at my doorstep. They’ve moved my boxes, listened to me cry, and let me hold their babies. 

The day I moved into my “new” 1920s studio apartment, one of my sisters came over to help me unpack. With boxes literally wall to wall I’d just barely managed to get my couch in position when she walked in carrying my 6-month old niece. As she whimpered in her carrier, the only open seat in the house, I wiped away tears of exhaustion, hunger, and general disappointment about what felt like another failure. Moving. Again.  

My sister asked what I wanted to do with the time we had and I looked at her blankly. On the verge of more tears she stopped me before I could utter anymore nonsense and said: “Here, you hold Pea. I’m going to organize your boxes so you can move around tonight. Your body needs a break from physical activity.” I love how literal she is sometimes.   

So, I wandered around the tiny corners of my new home with a baby perched on the crook above my hip as my sister put her life on pause to show up for me. Because life is showing up. Sometimes for ourselves, sometimes for others, and sometimes when you don’t know what else to do. And that is what makes life rich. Showing up enriches where we are going through the experiences we’re living in. 

 Showing up enriches where we are going through the experiences we’re living in.