And there’s a part of me fighting me on it

Life has settled out considerably in recent years, into a quiet desert life that is sometimes hard to trust.

I’m living in an awesome house with beautiful views and more space than we know what to do with.

Nadia and River are with me, relatively healthy, smiling most days, and expanding in their lives in their own ways.

I’ve had the same 9-6 job for almost three years. A record for me, I think. I still even enjoy it on most days, and like who I work with and for.

It’s rarely difficult to afford rent anymore. Or groceries, transportation, healthcare, water, electricity, air conditioning, internet… even streaming services!

I still remember when I didn’t have each of these current blessings. Including the daughters.

When life gets too busy or stressful and I need to remember gratitude, I go for a walk. Out in the desert elements, without trying, I can viscerally remember when I was living at one with them, just me and my minivan.

After such a walk, coming home to the safety and comfort I’ve created and been blessed with, the tears are inevitable. Even my toilet makes me cry sometimes.

My path has made gratitude easy.

Hope, on the other hand, has been a bit more elusive.

Walking River through her cancer journey showed me some pretty dark things about the medical money machine. And left us all with PTSD.

Supporting both my neurodivergent kids through their schooling gave me firsthand experience of how incredibly hard our current approach to education is on kids, parents, and teachers alike.

Going through family court woke me up to the abuse-sanctioning nightmare that’s really going on there.

Losing my home and living in vehicles without indoor plumbing for a year relieved me of any delusions that we live in a society that cares. (Pun intended, tee hee)

Guiding Nadia through a life-saving gender transition let me see with fresh eyes the incredible cruelty that trans and other non-conforming people experience in this society.

Discovering how many people in my communities were not willing to wear a mask or cast a vote to keep kids like mine alive was heartbreaking.

The fact that many of those same people were the ones posting encouraging comments when I shared about our struggles… brought a special kind of dysphoria.

Losing a beloved partnership that I believed in because he couldn’t be honest or faithful shook my belief in love. And in my own knowing.

There’s a part of me now that thinks that hope is actually kind of delusional.

Maybe it’s even entitled thinking to hope for “the good life” when so many are still in crisis.

My girls and I are housed and safe. We are mostly free, relatively content, and fully surrounded by luxuries we used to wish for.

How could I ask for more than that?

Sure, I’m pretty burned out on the job and on the caretaker phase of motherhood (it’s been a doozy!).

And our lease on this house runs out in a few months, when the owner plans to move in.

And I seem to have sort of forgotten how to relax. Or laugh.

But still…. we are undeniably blessed.

There are still people in hospitals, in family court, in Airbnbs and cars. Parents grieving, lovers betrayed, friends lost to MAGA or MAHA in worse scenarios than what I have experienced. Shit, there are people living through genocide.

So how can I dare to hope for better than all that I have now?

Seems much wiser to keep my nose down and focus on being grateful for what we have.

Just push through the burnout and the callings.

This might be as good as it gets.

That’s only part of me though.

There is another part of me that never runs out of hope.

Who can look at everything we’ve gone through as a miraculous series of blessings and guidance.

As though all these tribulations are just a juicy origin story to a Heroine’s Journey that’s barely begun.

And who knows, maybe she’s right.

Maybe things are going to keep getting better.

Maybe good things just happen sometimes, whether we “deserve” them or not.

Just like bad things.

Both of my girls are working a bit now. Creating art, building friendships, and getting excited about futures that don’t revolve around me.

We got an invitation to move into another house after this one, a quirky place with lots of character that we can make our own.

My writing is finally starting to flow after many years of feeling blocked.

I am once again getting invited to speak about Human Design and other things I’m passionate about.

And I met someone recently.

Someone who feels different.

Almost nothing has happened yet. We keep crossing paths and discovering more ways that our lives are intertwined, but we’ve only had a few breif conversations so far.

It’s way too soon to know if we’re compatible. If we want the same things. Or if he even sees me that way.

And yet, someone in me feels sure. Sure that there is something here. That this person is going to be important to me.

Even as I try to stay rational, she is noticing the resonance and wants to leap ahead.

My friends would probably call her the “Girl Who Cried Soulmate”

To that girl, I wrote this in my journal:

Hi sweetheart.

I see you.

The one who still believes he’s out there.

I love you so much.

You are the best part of me. The part that makes getting up worth it every day.

You breathe love into every day of my life, with or without him or anyone.

The girls, the cats, the house, the firm, your friends, your clients, your partners and crushes.

You drench everything in love.

You love big enough to rise to the challenges of being mom to a cancer kid and a trans daughter.

And to fight for them through burnout and trauma.

You love big enough to care for the dark ones until they choose to aim their darkness at you.

You’re not silly or foolish or gullible or wrong.

You are the highest and truest knowing of my soul.

Love is the priority, the point, and the answer.

And a partnership based on higher love is a force of light more powerful than the individuals who create it.

That’s a true calling.

We’re not late or early.

Just like we have always been writing, we have always been loving.

The cynic is here to protect and support us. She means well.

She’s learned a lot about boundaries and discernment.

And she’s also heavily conditioned by fear and patriarchy.

Don’t let her drive.

Keep the hope, the patience, and the openness to call in a true partner, at last.

But you don’t need me to remind you of that, do you?

Your hope is indomitable.

So I am on this ride with her again.

Will it be another unrequited crush that turns into warm friendship? I would take that.

But she says no.

Quietly but resolutely, she keeps whispering to me,

“No. This time is different.”