Letting Go of Someday

I’ve been boxing things up for a move. I am so good at this, Dear Reader, it is practically criminal. But there are still some things I fail at because I’m human, and being human sucks.

So I have a couple stacks of boxes I never unpacked. Most of them were taped up in September of 2020 when we moved out of our house. We were working on leaving Georgia, so our next three living situations were temporary (6 months in one place, 6 in another, and 1 month living with brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and niece). Then we came to Connecticut, and I left most of those boxes closed because we still weren’t permanent even though we intended to be here a couple years.

Forces conspired, and we’re moving again, but this time I’ve decided to unpack and parse down those things. If they’ve been in boxes for this long, clearly I don’t need them, right? Of course, right.

So I’m letting things go, which is good–it’s just stuff! It’s a fox-shaped salt shaker and a way-too-big fake lantern. But I found one, specific thing I’ve been carrying around that’s a little harder to part with. All of the things I’ve taken the time to pack up but are now letting go of are at least a little tough. They’re remnants of a life unloved, really. But this one thing has been around for so many years that I’m not even sure how long it’s been, but I AM embarrassed about it. So, naturally, I need to share that shame with the internet.

Many, many years ago, I had a very different idea of what my life would hold, one of those things being a child. It was well before we even tried to get pregnant, but Husband and I have always been planners, holding back on the big things, the expensive and important things, in favor of weighing options and just not pulling the trigger at all instead of the off chance we might not be ready. A baby is, I think, one of the best things to do this with. If you aren’t surprised by a pregnancy, then planning and holding back is rarely a bad thing. Babies grow up into actual, real people after all, and creating a whole ass person should never be taken lightly.

But I knew someday it would happen, and I also knew that, when I was pregnant, I was going to journal. I’ve always blogged, and I keep private writings and planners, but I planned to have a journal specifically written to my baby during pregnancy, and maybe I would continue it after they were born, and someday when they were an adult I would give it to them. It’s lofty, who knows if I would have actually done it, but I really wanted to. I always thought about my future child as an adult. Maybe that’s weird, but it kept me grounded in a sense, to remember that creating life meant contributing a soul to society who had to both endure existence on their own and be a part of the whole world. It’s not really a kind thing, to make a person, considering how much heartbreak you’re dooming them to, but the least I could do was give them a book of things their mom wrote about their existence, letting them know how wanted and important and loved they were.

So I bought a journal specifically for that. As a writer, I am a hoarder of journals anyway, but this one was specific. It was special. It spoke to me there on the shelf, which I get sounds stupid, but I knew it was the one to house these future thoughts. So much so that I have carried it around for almost a decade, untouched, just waiting.

It went in the donate box today.

I’ve considered donating it on many occasions, but I always thought, “you’re going to be so upset once you’re pregnant” because I always thought in the back of my mind: someday. But someday isn’t coming.

And even if I ever do have children, it won’t be the same as I imagined long ago. Not because it probably won’t be through pregnancy or because it’s less meaningful, but because I won’t be the same. I still believe all those things from back then about creating life, but that girl who believed in someday isn’t here anymore. And holding onto this representation of failure and misplaced hope is probably more destructive than it is a beacon of anything good.

So instead of that book to a person who will never exist, here are those words anyway to you, Dear Reader, who probably adopted that name from me both because of Jane Eyre and because you became my surrogate baby.

You are here.

You are important.

You deserve love even if it’s just your own.

Don’t let anyone make you feel small. Don’t be afraid to be yourself and to have your passions and to celebrate life. Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good, but don’t settle for okay. Find those things that make your heart squeeze around itself with joy. Know you are worth fighting for. Don’t hold on to a someday if it means giving up on today. Let go, fall, be free.