To Be Younger

I can’t begin to tell you how many scars I have on my body.  The one above my eye from when I tried to slide down a banister as a child, missed, and had to wear an eyepatch until it healed.  The other one above my eye from when I ran full speed into a door hinge and almost needed brain surgery when I was in kindergarten.  The ones on my left knee and right ankle where I blindly dove onto concrete trying to make a play in a competitive game I’d made up with my cousins involving throwing a ball on the garage roof and being the first to catch it once it rolled off.  There are plenty more, but I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older, the scars I acquire always seem a little less playful, a little more controlled.  It’s been a long time since I hurt myself so recklessly.

To be honest, I look back on my scarred younger self so fondly.  She was brave and trusted her body fully.  My childhood was filled with sports and often trying to outpace my brother, male cousins, or guy friends.  I loved the freedom that came from immersing myself in play and how it made me feel strong, like I was good at something.  I didn’t see limits.  I didn’t question if I was capable.  I didn’t doubt myself.  I didn’t notice I was shorter or smaller than the people I played with.  I wasn’t afraid.

I find myself thinking about all of these things as I hike decades later with my best friend.  “What do you look at when you hike?  I always look up,” she asks.  “I guess I look at the ground a lot and forget to look up,” I get lost in my thoughts.  

I start to go down a long rabbit trail of why that makes sense.  There were those three, yes, three different times, I almost stepped directly on a snake.  Then there’s the fact that ants live on the ground and if I get stung by one, I go into anaphylaxis.  There’s also the possibility there could be a rock that I miss, and then roll my ankle on meaning I have to rest, God forbid I have to stop being active for a season.  I haven’t actually seen one in nearly two years, but I’ve heard black widows are common in Colorado.  It’s the last thought that really strikes me as ridiculous.  

Sometimes I wear my fear like a blanket.  I’ve always tried to avoid that truth, as if it doesn’t exist, though I can see, when I’m in the quietest of places, it’s always with me.  Woven by years of life experiences and small moments that tied each knot.  A family member commenting on how my scars made me less attractive, insinuating that I should be more careful.  Someone I had considered a friend asking me who I thought I was in the face of my courage.  Tiring of having to prove myself over and over and over and over as a female athlete in order to get more play engagement than just being expected to make defensive plays and pass to the men on my team at any cost.  Then there was the time I went for the defensive play and got severely concussed, leaving me to spend the next three months primarily isolated in a dark room and unable to drive my car.  (If you’re wondering, I made the play.  Clearly my competitive fears only go so far.)  Somewhere along the way, that bold, fearless girl got smaller and smaller.  And while I may have acquired less scars, I also began to miss the beauty that comes with fully living, trusting that fear isn’t a safe or kind companion.

I’ve always been drawn to the words Jesus offers in Matthew 18: “I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven.  So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.”  

When children have support and know that they have someone bigger than themselves watching out for them, they explore the world freely with courage.  They play with strangers on the playground.  They share their hidden talents with pride.  They tell stories with wonder.  They run as hard as they can at recess.  They laugh with giddyness.  They cry openly when they’re hurting.  They lean in for a hug when they want comfort.  They love fiercely with generosity.  They depend on others outside of themselves.

I ponder all these things as I look back at my best friend and the scenery surrounding us.  There are snow capped peaks in the distance.  Spring wildflowers are starting to bloom along the trail.  The sunlight streaks through the clouds in cascading beams that spotlight the trees around us.  My friend looks back at me, and I’m reminded of how she has brought so much kindness, laughter, and safety to my world over the last eight years.  As a trauma therapist, I know that orienting yourself to the world around you sends messages to your body and brain that you are safe, allowing your nervous system to stand down and your body to relax.  I feel my shoulders drop as I allow myself to enjoy the sunshine kissing my cheeks, take in the colors of the wildflowers, and smile at my friend.  My thoughts move far away from snakes and fire ants as I rest in the beauty surrounding me.
It’s in moments like this, that I remember the truest story that pushes me forward toward a shedding growth that invites me back to the gritty little girl who raced the boys in gym class.  The truth that I’m not alone.  That I’m held, seen, and known by someone who can not only outrun me, but laugh with delight over my adventurous, competitive soul.  Someone who does not demand I stop being scared, but sits in the fear with me, patiently waiting for me to come alive.  When I remember that I trust a God who cares more about my safety than I ever will, I’m invited to play more fully, laugh more deeply, invest in the relationships around me, and move into the world with a confidence and courage that invites me to create and revel in the beauty around me.