How We Keep Surviving

I have survived too many hard things in this life. It’s not fair and some days are too hard. Allowing myself to feel that doesn’t make this a pity party, but I often wonder how I keep on surviving this world that tries to kill me (especially one unapologetically killing chronically ill and disabled people in a pandemic.) I keep on surviving because of privilege and luck, and also the ways I never fully abandoned who I am. I could never fully conform to external expectations.

Who we are is evident when we are young. Of course we grow, gain experiences, and change, but so much of that change is forced on us. We are expected to discard parts of ourselves and conform. This is how we become useful to capitalism and other oppressive systems. Conforming is how we survive. Yet, some of us – perhaps most of us – cannot fully surrender and abide by the invented norms of this “western” world. As a white, cis, straight-sized/thin, housed, usually “invisibly” disabled woman, and former healthcare professional, I have conformed to many things. Much of the world was built for these parts of me. Relying on these privileges, I have been able to pass and belong in many spaces. Yet, there I also had to learn to mask, camouflage, and compensate for parts of who I am from a very early age. For awhile, I have been picking up the pieces of who I am and have always been. Through this reclaiming, I realize there are parts of me I never lost. In fact, these facets of my personhood played a major role in survival, and are central to finding ways to thrive, now.

The deep love I have for myself now is still growing and changing, and was not always present. To say I was taught to hate myself is an understatement, but the ways I deeply love the rich life found around us has never been crushed. I owe that ‘zest for life’ to me. Not to my parents or teachers or other adults. I am the one who makes me who I am. It is interesting [gross] how often we attribute a “well-behaved” child to their parents. Yes, parents have a labour-intensive and very important role, and I am not denying or minimizing their impact. What I do question is why the magic of who people are is not credited to themselves. This deflection by way of both praising and blaming parents for their children dismisses that children are people. It reeks of believing children are “bad” until they are formed into something “good” by adults.

A child who is actually shining as their full selves likely has a stable and loving household. They likely have emotionally attuning and safe “buffer” adults in their life, even if they are living through Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). But who decides what a truly happy child looks like? Who decides when a kid is actually being their full self? How many kids even have spaces safe for them to be themselves? Too often we deem a “successful” and “happy” child as one who is conforming to the ideals, norms, and expectations we have for them. (Recall childhood includes teenagers!) We measure by which children have acceptable “behaviours” that make things easiest for adults. We moralize behaviours rather than seeing them as the communication they are. But no matter how much children – especially those who divert from the norm – are forced into compliance, there remains a seed of selfhood that cannot be fully erased.

We are who we are. I am who I have always been. That exact sentence has been weaponized against me to insult and demean me, actually… I am surprised with myself using it here. Even as I write, I am reclaiming. Haters can complain all they want, but I am who I am. I love who I am. I have finally in my thirties (which I’m nearing the end of!) found communities of people who love the real me, too.

Okay, look – I do give my parents a little credit. They got me into this world. They clothed and fed me. Plus, my grandparents were buffer adults in my life in some ways. What I never had, though, was an adult capable of emotional attunement, who could fully see and hear me. That is, until I grew up and learned how to be who the child and teen me had always needed. You don’t learn these skills and you don’t heal in these ways all alone. You need other people to hold you and love you as you learn to hold and love yourself. As I slowly found these people, communities, spaces, and therapists in my adulthood, (for a season, or for a long time) I began to realize so many parts of me had been demonized and hated but are actually gifts and pieces of me that I have deep love for. There are parts of me that hold up a mirror to those who don’t want to look. There are parts of me which refuse to be deadened and conform to harmful norms. There are parts of me that say No when I must; that won’t let go; that know what I need. I’ve been reclaiming them, and they are just as beautiful as they always were.

I am still the little girl with the unquenchable sense of wonder. Most of my childhood memories are fuzzy or gone altogether, but I know I have always loved being outside. The outdoors and nature allow my sense of wonder, my love for physical play and exhilaration, my curiosity, and my need for connection to myself and the earth. Outside is a safe(r) space to be loud, aggressive, energetic, and messy. Outside is a curious, imaginative, adventurous nervous system’s playground. The colours. The smells. The textures. The unending opportunities to watch and observe. You can see my love for these things and my deep wonder at the world alive and well in me, today. And they were there when I was small.

I am still the little girl with the adventurous spirit. I want to try it myself. I need to experience it to learn it best. I crave the novelty and the challenge. I am not afraid of the hard things – bring it on. This is so deeply who I am that if you are reading this and you know me, you’re probably smiling. I am/was adventurous in the stereotypical ways – always moving, multiple hobbies, welcoming change even when it’s scary and hard. And I am adventurous in the less praised ways, too – naming harms, trying to deal with conflict head-on (not always, but mostly), speaking up and imagining a better way alongside others, trusting myself and my instincts, always questioning and needing to understand “why”, and growing and reaching for the best version of myself and others (this does not mean perfectionism!)

I am still the little girl who sees and holds the simple joys of life. I don’t need big gestures and big experiences, though those are fun. Here are some examples as I sit and write: I am sitting at the dining room table that my partner built with his hands. It’s beautiful, sure, but it’s also something he made, it is a place we gather together daily, and because I love him deeply it brings me so much joy. I am wearing a plaid, fleece, collared zip-up that was my grandfather’s. When this man was alive, he wore a plaid shirt and green work pants nearly every day of his life. He died at 92 years old and he loved to work with his hands, be outside, and run errands. I think of him as I wear this around the house. I have visions of him waiting in his truck to pick me up from school or practice, his arm hanging out the driver’s side window drumming a beat on the side of the vehicle. We were alike in ways I am still discovering even though he is gone. He was one of a few positive constants in my life when growing up. Wearing his old plaid fleece with the paint stains on it (paint stains from me, not him, which he would love) is a deep-seated joy and sense of “home”. My home was never my house as a kid – my home was my grandparents. And as I sit writing this I gaze out the window at lightly falling rain. I am so grateful for rain on our newly planted seeds and for the vegetation that badly needs it as we approach wildfire season in this time of climate catastrophe. The freshness and the sound and sight of the droplets landing is enough in itself to make me feel cozy, hopeful, joy.

I am a survivor of many things and I have been returning to myself for as long as I can remember. This deep love for self has always been a seed within me, even while mired in teachings and internalization of self-loathing, shame, and conformity. I wouldn’t blame myself or anyone else for losing more – or all – of who we are. The many layers of oppression in our world and our families can lead to deep loss of self, but there is always a seed ready for us to cultivate. I’ve had a heavy dose of hard and traumatic in this life and it would be okay if it kept me down. Because this is not an ode to toxic positivity and expecting us all to “overcome” hard things. Some things do break us. This is simply a letter of gratitude to a self-hood I am still reclaiming. A self-hood that keeps rising from ashes with a drive to connect, create, and dream alongside others. I am a survivor but I am a full person beyond survival. I am learning how to reclaim and thrive, now. The way I love me and the way my people love me keeps saving me over and over again.

I am a fallible human, living imperfectly, and I am deeply loved and deeply loveable for all of who I am. I refuse to ever let go of that truth, again. I hope it’s one you can cling to, as well. An affirmation for us all: I am deeply loved and deeply loveable. I am grateful for who I am and the way I am; and for the people and communities who actively love me.