Finding Myself In The Middle Of The Holidays


I wear a ring on my right hand that I gave to myself. It sits on my middle finger and in the right light you can make out the triangle that rests above the inscription. Every so often, I'll run my thumb along the backside of the ring, my personal reminder that my future is mine to choose. 

During hard days, it reminds me that getting dealt a bad hand of cards is all about perspective. I have a choice, it's found in between the breaths I take while I shift the ring on my finger. It's present as I sit closely with the reality that in the midst of praying and yelling at God, I always find myself at home in the middle. 

The holidays find me in the middle often. They also find me on my knees praying to God just as frequently. I sit with the reality of my story in ways that other seasons don’t force me into. Daily, I’m reminded of what I’m missing and how I miss it. I challenge the world through the lens of loss and of whether the rest of the world sees what I see when I look in the mirror. I wonder if in between glances on New York streets if the stranger who walks past me knows I’m in need of more love, of more grace, of more forgiveness than in other seasons. 

On a regular Wednesday, every person in a big city feels like a stranger at some point; the holidays makes that an eternal feeling even when you’re around those who are closest to you. 

I touch the ring on my middle finger to remind myself that I’m known by myself and by many. I’m seen and my reflection lives in the ways I’m loved during my lowest and hardest. 

Then - in ways that only the holidays can bring - there’s a miracle moment, a moment when the smoke clears and all that is left are the scars I’m proud to call mine. The nooks and crevices of my story wind like creeks that are full of life and memories. 

I miss those I love during the holidays because I dared to love in the first place, because I dared to trust and ignore that mortality is a timer, not a stopwatch that bends to my whim.