Tag Archives: a new life

Let’s begin. Let’s begin. Let’s begin.


Next Sunday, I’ll be waking up next to my husband. We’ll rise out of bed before the sun, shimmy into shorts, toss on tees and slip on flip flops. We’ll haul our belongings over our shoulders, roll carry on suitcases across a quiet parking lot, and shuffle into the backseat of my mother’s car. We’ll get on a plane and slide into our row and fall asleep on each other’s shoulders.

I think about that moment. How friends and family and neighbors say, “You’re flying out the morning after your wedding at what time?” How they worry we’ll be tired. How they wonder why we wouldn’t want to fly later, in the afternoon, when the world starts to stir.

There’s a quote from When Harry Met Sally that goes a little something like this: “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

That’s how I feel. I’m marrying my best friend. The person who makes me laugh every day. Who holds me when I’ve had a bad day. Who wipes away my tears and kisses my forehead. He’s the first person I want to see in the morning and the last person at night. He calms me, challenges me, and energizes me.

It doesn’t matter if we don’t sleep much. I have never been a sleeper.

In the last few weeks, I have stopped myself midway through filing and recycling papers in my office at midnight. Putting gifts into bags and twisting up tissue paper. Considering the hard water stains on my faucets, and how long it might take to wipe all the surfaces in the bathroom.

I know there isn’t much different about marriage when you’ve been living with the man already in a house you bought months ago. But it feels fresh. It feels new. It feels like a chance to stop and say, “Let me make sure I always listen to you and ask you questions and check in. Let me fold the laundry this time. Let me wash your car.”

It feels like a good reason to scrub every surface of my house, to sweep the floors, to beat the rugs against my wrought iron railings.

We don’t need cobwebs. We don’t need dust. We don’t need dirt. We need clarity—about our hopes, our dreams, our goals, our love, our daily wants and needs. We need to declutter externally before we can feel free and fresh inside.

So my floors are swept. My counters are clean. My heart is open.

Let’s begin. Let’s begin. Let’s begin.

They're still pinging you with new Friend Requests and People You May Know long after you've defriended them.

I am de-friending Failure on Facebook, blocking her (because I am sure she looks like Regina George from Mean Girls) from my News Feed, and untagging her from all my photos.

The thing about de-friending someone on Facebook is that they don’t actually disappear. They’re still sitting in the back of your mind at your weakest moments. They’re still pinging you with new Friend Requests and Mutual Friends and the People You May Know tab long after you’ve kicked them to the curb.

But for some wicked and unexplainable reason, that’s comforting.

I can’t get rid of the moment Failure and I became best friends. We were in fourth grade and she leaned across the lunch table, snapped my sports bra against my bony shoulder.

“You have nothing,” she told me.

Translation: you are nothing.

She could’ve push me up against a wall and every single part of my body would’ve touched it. No curves—just a few feet of Failure rolled into my tiny torso.

Later she shoved me up against a locker and told me to stop being mental. Stop worrying about cracking my head open when I jumped backward and begged my arms to hold my weight. Stop punishing myself for being the oldest—and least competent—girl on the gymnastics team.

Failure punched me in the gut when my coach died and I thought I’d lost my only supporter.

It grinded me into the dusty playground asphalt when I didn’t make it into the gifted program in middle school.

It smacked me across the cheek when I quit gymnastics and opted to run circles through the woods.

It wrapped its meaty arms around me and choked me when I didn’t make it to the track championships for the 100-meter hurdlers. Every race after that when I tripped and fell flat on the rubber lane, it branded me with miniscule imprints around my eyes and cheekbones and forearms.

But regardless of the stories Failure tells you growing up, it’s the reason you’re able to turn someone else’s Failure down. It’s the reason you’ll never be far from the broken hearts and aching souls and twisted tragedies lining your email inbox and your phone lines and your text messages.

It’s the reason Failure always seems like a looming threat and a distant memory—at the same time. You can’t be strong unless you were weaker. You can’t reach out a hand unless you’ve once grasped someone else’s with all the helplessness in the world.

And it’s the reason every time someone else needs the courage to push the un-friend button on Facebook, I will be right there, cheering them on.