A few years ago, I remember telling a therapist that it seemed like every time I solved one problem, another one appeared.
I'd get through one thing, and here came something else. I'd figure that out, and here came another.
She just nodded.
"Yep. That's life."
Excuse me?
I was expecting us to dive deep. Unpack something. Find the root of this never-ending cycle of things happening to me.
Nope.
Just life.
I remember looking at her like that blinking man meme. You mean to tell me this is forever? We heal the toe, and now the knee hurts? We fix the knee, and here comes the hip?
Forever?!
Apparently so.
That was one of the greatest gifts she gave me. The understanding that life isn't something we eventually finish figuring out. It just keeps happening.
Yesterday, I had another therapy appointment. Things were going so well that we ended early. Nothing pressing to discuss. We agreed that we'd call it a check-in and meet again next month.
Twenty-four hours later, a whole new can of butterflies.
That's what I'm calling them. Butterflies.
My once tidy little space is suddenly full of them, fluttering around, waiting to be sorted, admired, understood.
And thank goodness I can write.
Because sometimes writing is how I take a photograph of my life.
A photograph reminds you that something really happened. That a place existed. That you were there. That what now feels like a distant dream was once your everyday reality.
And recently, an actual photograph helped me remember something extraordinary.
I was raised by my grandmother.
I know. That sounds like something a person should already know.
Especially at the ancient age of 30.
But hear me out.
For as long as I can remember, my story has been that I was raised by a single father.
And I was.
My father became a widower with four children. The oldest was eight, and the youngest was just 18 months old.
He had four little lives to care for, a household to support, and a life of his own to somehow keep living.
Fortunately, right across the street lived my grandmother.
His wife's mother.
A woman who had just lost her daughter.
And together, they made a life for us.
My father worked to provide, and my grandmother raised us in her home. She worked too, but her schedule was more predictable. His hours could be more flexible, allowing him to earn what he needed to support us.
It worked.
It worked beautifully.
We'd wake up, get ready for school, and head out for the day. We'd come home, sometimes smelling dinner before we even reached the door. Other days, we'd have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours.
There were usually five to seven of us running around at any given time.
It was a full house.
And it was full of love.
But somewhere along the way, my memories of that house became memories of my childhood, rather than memories of being raised by my grandmother.
Until my sister went apartment shopping.
She was looking through listings in our childhood neighborhood when she happened upon our grandmother's house.
There it was. On Zillow.
The wallpaper. The entrance. The fixtures. The paint. The trees. The shed.
All of it.
The house looked so familiar that the photographs began filling in spaces in my memory I hadn't realized were empty.
And my sister said something along the lines of, "We were so loved in that house."
We were.
We really were.
And then it hit me.
Wait a minute.
I was raised in that house. By my grandmother.
I was today years old when I realized I was raised by my grandmother.
And what's even funnier is that just a few weeks earlier, I'd been having this whole revelation about being raised by a man.
Oh my goodness. I was raised by a man. I must be so much like him!
And I am.
But there's more to the story.
My grandmother raised me, and when she passed away when I was 14, my father became the most present person in my development.
Of course, he'd always been my father. He was always there. But our relationship evolved as life changed.
At 14, life really starts rolling. You're becoming someone. You're forming opinions, discovering yourself, and beginning to understand the world beyond the one you've always known.
And there was my dad.
The same man who had made such a wise decision all those years before.
I think about that now, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
He didn't have to do everything himself to be an extraordinary father.
He recognized the love and support available to us, and he allowed us to receive it.
And my grandmother, who had lost her daughter, got to love her daughter's children.
I don't think I'll ever fully comprehend how special that is.
It's one thing to be loved by your mother.
But to be loved by the woman who loved your mother? The woman who helped fill her with the love she would have given you?
I was loved straight from the source.
And somehow, even after losing so much, there was still so much love.
I think that's what makes this discovery so beautiful.
At 30, I am still learning about the life I've already lived.
Thirty years doesn't sound like much, but goodness, I've lived so many lives within them. Sometimes I feel like I've been here for an eternity. Not because life has been unbearable, but because it has been so full.
Full of people. Full of experiences. Full of endings and beginnings. Full of things I didn't understand until years after they happened.
And apparently, full of butterflies.
I'm grateful that I remember so much. I'm grateful for photographs that bring the forgotten pieces back. I'm grateful for the people who were part of my life, even when I didn't yet understand the significance of their presence.
Some people might look at my childhood and see tragedy.
I see life.
I see a father who made excellent choices.
I see a grandmother who loved us beautifully.
I see four children who were cared for in a way that might not have looked traditional, but worked for them.
And I see a family that found a way to keep living, and loving, after loss.
This is a reminder to myself and my siblings that we lived a beautiful life.
And to my father, that he did a wonderful job.
And to my grandmother, that all these years later, her love is still revealing itself to me.
What an extraordinary thing.
To be 30 years old, still discovering how loved you've always been.
With even more love,
