Day 18: I Looked at Other People's Wedding Photos, Then at the Sky, and Felt Genuinely Happy

Subchallenge: I Blogged About My Personal Life

This post is a difficult one, and one I don't want to write, but I knew starting out that this reflection would be one of the most important ones for me. I wrote in my first post about the expectations and pressures that I felt accompanied a thirtieth birthday. I considered the milestones that a self-respecting 30 year old woman would have reached. Many of those expectations have never troubled me: as a vegetarian, I'm exempt from knowing how to perfectly roast a chicken, and I'm content not to have to worry about a mortgage or the finance costs that would accompany my first million dollars. But it is not easy to shake off the expectation that I should be married. 

When I first moved to That City North of Here to start grad school, I noticed other women riding the train with their gloves off and their left hands holding the poles, rings prominently displayed. It was the most visual example I'd seen of the status conferred by a relationship: here was the sparkling proof that someone found this woman so fabulous and worthy that he'd invested thousands of dollars in a slim band and small stone; though he might not be on the train now he existed and there was the proof. Then, that spring, I joined Facebook and became aware of a whole new kind of visual proof of someone's worth:

Or even worse:

and I wrestled with the need to prove to other women on the train or to long-lost classmates that I was worth as much as they were. In fact, I asked myself if I wanted to be in a relationship just to be able to prove my worth. 

Of course, some of the pressure I felt was external - the need to meet others' expectations of what a balanced, successful, mature, and polished young woman should be - but a lot of the pressure I felt came from my own expectations of adulthood. Although I worried that other people would think I was inferior without the right ring or relationship status, I didn't necessarily think I was inferior for not having them. Instead, I wanted to be in a relationship in order to share what I experienced intimately with another person, whether those were major milestones or passing moments, whether they were joyful or painful, intense or ordinary. 

In the years that followed my life has been very rich. When I think about the time that's passed since I first cried over this in That City North of Here, I almost cry again - but out of thankfulness. I have survived not one but four hurricanes, gotten two pet hermit crabs, eaten plates of boiled shrimp on the deck of a boat in a wide-open bayou; caught strands of beads under the branches of live oaks; driven twice across the country, once as winter clouds settled over the hills of northern Alabama and snow drifted over the mountains of Tennessee; biked around Central Park and snorkeled in Iceland; eaten spicy Vietnamese sandwiches, po'boys, and Danish smørrebrød; planted two gardens, and held my  best friend's newborn daughter. I am so lucky and so alive. I have shared some of these experiences with a boyfriend, and others I've experienced on my own. But as I look back I see that I have experienced each one fully. Each one, along with the more ordinary ones not listed here, has made me the person I am now, turning 30, more self-assured, more fully myself, and yet still eager for new experiences.

Day 18, however, put me to the test. I had spent the previous day on the verge of tears after meeting with my ex-boyfriend. (Yes, Mom, I do hear your voice saying, "I don't know what all this "hanging out" with someone you broke up with is about.") After a couple of confusing conversations, we agreed, with finality, that while we missed each other we weren't right for each other, and that was that. I mourned the loss of his company, the lost chance, and the lost sense of security that came from believing we'd be together. While I knew that this was the right decision, I didn't want to let go. I also knew that by letting go I was accepting the risk that I might not find those experiences of intimacy and partnership again.

On Thursday morning I woke up and checked Facebook, always a risk. The night before, in a moment of tear-stained bitterness, I had considered deleting my account and never having to see anyone's engagement announcements or baby pictures again. I'm glad I decided not to. The top story in my news feed that morning was a college friend posting the full portfolio of her professional wedding pictures. I made myself look at them: she posed on a stone staircase with her train sweeping behind her, and smiled through her tears when she saw the groom waiting at the altar. The whole wedding party grinned and laughed on the roof of the building, with the skyline of their city behind them. And as I looked at her smile and her sparkling eyes, I felt happy, and I felt my heart open a little, and I knew that my happiness, within my sorrow, could be genuine.

But the challenge wasn't over. As I got ready to leave for work, I noticed that the stems of milkweed seed pods I'd gotten the week before: 

had broken open, and the seeds and tufts were floating across my living room: 

I immediately thought about my ex-boyfriend and wanted to tell him about the amazing example of the natural world making itself known right before me, and then remembered that I couldn't. I felt frustrated and adrift: what was the point of seeing something if I couldn't tell someone about it? What was the point of laughing or smiling if I laughed or smiled alone? What good was learning something new or hearing an amazing song if I didn't have a partner* to tell how it moved me? 

*Please, for the sake of this post, try not to remember that "partner" has become such a dorky, cheesy word, and try to see it in its best, fullest light.

I left the apartment and waited for my bus, looking up at the sky and across the street to the church. The sky was bright blue, not too deep, and a flock of pigeons burst from an apartment building and scattered above the church's peaked roof. My breath caught in my throat at the beauty of the sky and the birds, and at the pain of having no one to see them with. My eyes were downcast with bitterness, but then I felt God's presence, quietly and shyly, and I knew I hadn't seen them alone.

I've noticed that the standard breakup response from well-wishers is, "Don't worry - everything will be all right because you'll find someone who's (more) right for you." While I appreciate the kindness and optimism at the root of that response, here's the deal: I might not find that someone. And that's not pessimistic. This is the most optimistic, faithful, and true response: No matter what, everything will be okay. My worth isn't proven by the way I hold my hand on the subway or by what's posted on my Facebook page. My experiences have intrinsic worth that is not lessened by the fact that I've experienced many of them on my own.

There is deep joy in sharing our experiences with one another and in living in solidarity. I am so grateful for that blessing, any way it has come. But every experience, even those of loneliness, solitude, and quiet, has blessed me. Each experience has the potential to refine me into the person God calls me to be, to make me more fully alive and more fully myself. And for that I am giving thanks.