It’s been a year.  

Some days it feels like a dream; a hazy secret whispered in my ears by strangers and passersby. Hushed clandestine words they feel compelled to share whether I want to hear them or not. The anxious pit in my stomach expands and contracts with each breath I take as they lean in close, their lips moving in slow motion. Lyrical movements produce a viscous flow of explanations I can’t decipher. Or I don’t want to.

Other days it’s real. And the reality is stark, bleak, cold. The anxiety is present still, but manifests as a constant dull ache that teases its way up to my chest when I see a photo of us. Or implodes when I force a smile and wish a “Happy Thanksgiving” to the cashier as I load my cart alone, the flickering fluorescent lights above burning a harsh memento into my eyes.

But most days it’s a pinch of each of the above and a whole lot of…in-between. And I’m comfortable. Writing. Loving. Traveling. Drinking coffee. Finding my place in the world again. I love what’s growing in the in-between and I really like living there.  

Grief isn’t linear, this we know, so those pinches have become commonplace and easier to push through. And like grief, healing, too, is constant. As a result, emotional wounds close, re-open, scab over, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. They ache some days and sure, they still bleed on occasion.

One of the more challenging pieces is when those scars crack and hemorrhage while riding a wave of forward momentum. Things are going well. You’re happy. And boom.

 Splatter. With speed and direction – a literal velocitized emotional bomb.

 Inevitably those wounds will end up affecting the people, places, and ideas that inhabit your emotional space. Your proverbial “splatter zone.” It’s a variable in this non-linear equation I didn’t anticipate. I mean, how could I, when I’ve learned the only constant is that nothing is ever constant.

When I travel north the first thing I notice is how different the landscape looks. The sun being closer to the horizon, it casts an ethereal glow from dawn until dusk. In that way, the 22nd in Quebec City was no different than any other first wake up in a new-to-me city; soft, burnt orange emanating through the blinds I couldn’t manage to close the night prior.  

I knew leading into the one-year mark I would need to be away. Away from the dream. Away from the reality. Away from unintentional bombs. I wanted to live in the in-between as best I knew how.

And really, the day felt like strangely normal; meandering down city streets to find coffee and bagels, being drawn into small shops by adorable window displays and twinkling lights, doing our best to chat with locals via broken language and hand gestures.

I was really proud of myself. Of course I had pinches, but I gave myself grace as best I could and enjoyed the architecture and the frosty air hitting my cheeks and the sunny glow.  

[Insert splatter]

There was no trigger, no traumatizing event or conversation. In fact, Steph and I were chatting and laughing with fellow explorers (Hi, Santas!). We talked about you, about American politics, love, loss, football.

Despite a public venue surrounded by virtual strangers, my emotions welled. I didn’t suppress them. I reached out to loved ones at home via phone and text. I searched for external comfort because it just felt easier than whatever was internally required to push through the feels. And many folks, both near and far, found themselves in that splatter zone.

I braced for impact.

I didn’t expect anyone to help me stitch up the proverbial wound that had split. And not due to distrust or low expectations, but because of the emotional burden being on clean-up crew creates. I planned to just slap a band-aid on and keep moving forward; I was riding that wave, after all.  

But as has happened so many times on this journey, I found myself surrounded, physically and virtually, by both loved ones and practical strangers. All of them affected, in the splatter zone, even if for the briefest of moments. They kept me close, providing bandages and aspirin and crutches and splints. Slapping the band-aids out of my hands and in return giving more than I could have asked for.

Sunbeams flickered through the blinds like wildfire, prying my eyes open on a second day in Quebec City. My heart welled with gratitude and love.

A bit sore but not bleeding; back in the in-between.