Oscillating in the in-between

In the quiet moments before everything changes, I'm suspended between a goodbye and becoming.

There are very few periods in life where I wish time would speed up. Most of the time I’m actively trying to hold on to the moment just a little bit longer.

Knowing that everything is temporary, life is constantly fleeting, and nothing belongs to us makes each moment lived that much more deserving of pure presence.

I try my best to take an extra second to deeply breathe in a scent to the point where I can almost taste it, to imprint images and memories into my mind, to hold on to someone’s warmth for just a moment that’s probably too long.

I want all of the fleeting aspects of life etched into my brain so I can return to them when I need to micro dose happiness. To recall their fondness with a clarity that feels like I could actually still be there.

I can still remember what the centimeters of grey hairs that stuck out of my dad’s cold bald head felt like when his consciousness transitioned out of his body. I can still remember that the bruises the IV’s left in his veins looked like paint blotches on a perfect canvas, and I’m sure if you gave me a paint brush I could recreate the image now. I can still remember how deafening the silence was when his life support was turned off and how the phantom beeps of his heart monitor rang in my ears for days after he was gone – convincing myself that he wasn’t ready to leave me quite yet either.

See, most of the time I’m actively trying to hold on to the moment just a little bit longer. I’d rather have the welcome be overstayed than it be too brief, every time.

But this period of life is one of those times where I feel like I’m trapped in purgatory.

I’m in a waiting period, watching an invisible timer run out before my eyes and all I can do is let it pass. Killing time until the next chapter of my life starts. Like I’m on the edge of the cliff just wanting to jump already but having to wait until the count of “3.”

At this point I’m not afraid of loss, nothing lasts forever, but I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed the process of grief.

Part of me feels like I’m running from emotions that inevitably will demand to be felt. Like I’m craving the movement so that I don’t have to grieve all I’m about to lose. Wanting this next version of myself to be here already so I can skip the hardest part.

Because I feel the full gravity of all I’m leaving behind.

I know how devastated and hollow I’m going to feel when my mom drops me off at the airport to move 3,000 miles away by myself. I know how heavy my chest feels when I think about the family, friends, and community I have to lose yet again. I know how much I’m going to cry doing all of the things I love for “the last time.”

I have to remind myself that I am incredibly lucky to even have a life so beautiful that I don’t want to leave it all behind.

Not everyone gets the opportunity to savor a goodbye. Not everyone gets the time to cherish fleeting moments. Not everyone has roots deep enough that it hurts to rip out.

And that in and of itself is a blessing – a privilege. It means I’ve created something and felt a love worth mourning.

Still, I find myself on the edge of that cliff, memorizing the way my feet feel on the steady ground, the way the air smells coming in and out of my nose, the way the green hills contrast against the blue sky that meets the blue water perfectly. Waiting for the countdown to jump.

1… 2…

3.