Reconstruction

I call my mother in a panic, my voice guttural and trembling as I sobbed into the phone, “This last year took everything from me.”

I tell her that I can’t cope.

My mother (a woman of few words in these instances) reminds me that “can’t” has rarely been apart of my lexicon.

And with this remembrance, I allow myself to again become the 9 year-old girl who taught herself how to ride a bike

The young girl who knew what she wanted and that no one else had the space to give to her, So she decided to give to herself.

***

With each recalling of a memory details naturally change, but through this act of repair and remembering, the narrative itself transformed.

Countless times, I’ve sat across from a therapist and said something to the effect of, “My mom was always so impatient. Plus, I was never athletic or coordinated like my sister so she wasn’t at all interested in teaching me things that were more complex than how to correctly do chores.”

As with all one-sided accounts, there are sprinkles of objective truth to that statement.

However, the story that best serves my reconstruction goes a bit like this: When I was in late elementary school, I was still using training wheels which was embarrassing for me because it felt like most of my peers had already leveled up.

I wanted to ride a bike without training wheels so that I could “be normal” and fit in; but also, because it seemed exhilarating. 

So once my goal was cemented, I stayed outside for hours every single day.

My method was simple, I’d glide down our slightly inclined driveway and peddle myself back up….

Over and over and over and over again.

***

Needless to say, I struggled and sweated and made a fool of myself and cried and stumbled and beat myself up Because riding a bike was hard; doing it alone was harder and I was scared that I’d never get it.

Then one day—after my tears dried— I went outside and sat on my bike. I glided down our driveway’s incline and finally managed to paddle halfway down the street.

The rest is history.

And if there’s one thing American’s know about history it’s that it can be rewritten. So why not for the better? 

Why not celebrate fear, doubt, failure, resistance, and resilience as much as we celebrate the achievement itself?

If not for ourselves, then for those that love us unconditionally, that cheer us on, that remind us of who we are. 

Those that keep us grounded in the fact that we have—and will continue to—get knocked on our asses AND that we have—and will continue—to make the  changes required in order to pick ourselves back up. Being that person for yourself works just as well too.

Willingness is one of many major keys to expansion.