It’s so amazing and true. We are all unique and different.

A little about me:

I’m not very shy.  I love reading and music.

I’m honest and very straight forward. I’m pretty much like an open book: if you search for an answer, you’ll find it.

…If I know it, obviously.

I’ve been through several dark times and beautiful moments as well.

I’ve heard some people say it around me from time to time: 

-”Oh, I rather not talk about it.”

They then explain that they don’t wish to revisit the pain, or that they feel that situation is still too fresh. 

We’re different.

I’ll talk about my life, whenever with whoever.  No residual pains remains, no secret.

I admit: maybe yes, some sensitivities but — I got no problem unfolding them in a conversation.

No need to avoid a subject, no pins on my heart.

Until today, I felt a glimpse: it made me reconsider. I’m not sure what happened differently. 

For the first time this evening; while I stepped out of the bath with my son: I felt last year’s ache. As if all the grief and pain showered down my body: half a second thunder.

Somehow overwhelmed, I forgot to breathe. Surprised, I gasped for air. 

My son turned to me.

-”You ok mommy?”

I picked him up and wrapped him in a towel, kissed him and told him everything was good.

I dressed him in his pajamas, offered some fruits while he watched some tv; glad this conversation was simply with me, internally. Right then and there: I wasn’t ready to unfold.

I had thought of a particular lullaby and maybe this was what had sparked the flow. 

Late at night, when he was unwell: awake, and lying in his hospital crib; I would play this lullaby music from Youtube on the television in the hospital room.

Maybe I associated the bathroom moment with the images displayed during the song: fish and sea landscapes.

Maybe it was just a coincidence: but stepping out of the bath yesterday; I was momentarily, lost at sea.

See: I recollected the stress, the daily inductions, the sleepless nights: my son’s sickness and the heaviness of it all.

Let me assure you. 

Witnessing his daily conditions, holding him during the medical evaluations and through the painful procedures, restraining him as he kicked and pushed, yelled and cried.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so strong yet so distressed.

Strong for him. Strong for us. Ultimately focused on the end goal: his health.

Everyday. 

I’m praying for those times to remain the worst of his times.

So as I’m composing this piece today, I feel some worry and some emotional weight.

I feel hopeful too. He’ll grow to be a caring adult, a loving person. I wish to see him happy and healthy, smiling and striving. This seldom emotional flash: makes me ponder.

Maybe it’s time, maybe it’s me, maybe this will change.

Who knows? 

I do know this:

I always valued talking and thinking, observing and communicating. 

Image and emotion memory triggered, I still consider the emotional discomfort worth revisiting. 

For me, exploring and unfolding my feelings are part of my growth formula. 

That’s just how I do.

There’s other ways to do. 

We different.