moments (part 1)

A job interview. A panic attack. A consequential conversation about friendships. A postponed surgery. A text from a therapist at one in the morning. A heated exchange over languages and Chick-Fil-A. A much-needed “I love you” text. A reminder that I don’t miss being sick, even when I really feel like I do.

These are summarizations of only a couple moments from the past two days. 

And, still, I live in the past. 

I miss my people. The ones I grew up with, the ones who grew up with me, the ones who didn’t have to figure me out, nor I them—when scheduled catch-ups and polite smiles were spontaneous “I’m coming over”s and bellyaching laughs. I ponder if my own grief holds me back, especially on days like today. 

The tide pulled through with a nail-biting win, and next week we brace ourselves for the Tennessee Vols. I reminisce on fond memories, thinking how different this year will be, how different last year was, and the year before that. Because I no longer have a best friend born out of Memphis, Tennessee who would never let me forget that fact. Who would vexingly tell me: “You’re still my best friend, and I still love you,” after I’d start the feud-filled football morning off by reminding her we can’t be friends today. Or the childhood best friend—who would more accurately fit the description of a sister—who never really cared for sports, but began spending all her Saturdays yelling at the TV right alongside me, because one day she had enough of being told no to weekend plans because “uhm, I’ll be watching the game, dumbass”. (She may or may not have occasionally screamed something about a fumble when there was clearly an interception on the field, but her heart was in the right place, dammit). 

We could have fun anywhere, doing anything, at any given moment. We could turn awkward, please-kill-me-right-now moments into doubled-over snorts, sore faces, and the good kind of tears that you never want to end. We got angry over things we probably had no business being angry at. We had more good days than we had bad, even with families we were too young to understand, lives we had no control over, and honors homework actively looming over us like storm clouds while we danced in the rain. 

When Christine first used the word grief to describe what I was feeling, I stared at her like she had just snatched my new-born child from my arms (her words, not mine). “Nobody has died,” I reminded, like she had lost her mind. She must have. But she didn’t budge or falter. Instead, she said, “Your old life did.” Then, “They may not be dead, but they’re no longer a part of your world. Relationships die. You need to grieve them.” In that moment, I hated her and thought her audacity knew no bounds. I hated her, and I needed that. I needed to be in the depths of a crippling heartache, drowning in woe, saying, nobody understands, it will never be the same, and to hear you’re right, nobody does, and it never will.

Two decades spent with time and proximity on our side lead up to days like these where I feel like there is nothing to show for it. I have a cruel tendency of looking back at these times with rose-tinted glasses, often forgetting that things and people come to an end for a reason, and sometimes no reason at all, and that life doesn’t usually give you a hand to hold—before, during, or after. It just keeps going. And going. And going. Even if at some point, you feel like you stopped. Even if you feel like it’s dragging you.

Yeah. I miss my people. I miss that part of my life. I miss that version of myself. I know I will be okay. I know there’s some version of Sawsan with those best friends and that life that still lives in me. But there are moments where I don’t feel okay, and there is a part of me I will never get back. It lives with the people that are no longer in my life. And that’s okay. Because I get to start building new parts. They don’t have to replace the old ones, or even compare to them; they can all just coexist. Some days I just really want to be with the parts that live with the people I can no longer reach. Those can be the days I take a break from building, maybe even look back at some of my old parts and smile, laugh, cry, yell.

Those were summarizations of only a couple moments from the past two decades.

And, still, I’m learning to live in the present.