Dumpster Fires & Fig Jam

There is something deeply humbling about rebuilding yourself.

Not the pretty kind of rebuilding either. Not the kind where you light a candle, buy a journal, then suddenly emerge three weeks later a glowing version of yourself everyone on Instagram promised you could become.

I mean the real kind—the ugly, slow, sometimes angry kind where you stand in the rubble of who you used to be and wonder what the hell you are supposed to do with all these jagged, broken bits.

Because the truth is, losing yourself is draining.

By the time the bridges had burned all the way down to the ground, there wasn't much of the old me left. The chipping away was subtle; it went about unnoticed, and when I finally looked in the mirror, what I saw scared me. It wasn’t the graying hair or the wrinkles, but rather the fear that resided in tired eyes. The realization that so much time might have passed whilst I was playing games with my heart.

The years had chipped away at me slowly.

And while I was whittling myself down to something so unlike me, I was left seeking answers to whether rebuilding could even be possible.

Funny, isn't it?

How people can live through the same years and walk away carrying entirely different versions of the story.

I was still here.

A husk remained, but I was still here, still stubborn, though I would need something dramatic to shift the needle this time. There was this stubborn little flicker inside me that refused to go out, despite everything I had done to put out the flames.

And perhaps that was enough.

So I began.

To reimagine, to hope, that not all was lost.

I stopped trying to reconstruct the woman I had been before—she was gone.

And I was glad for it, because she buckled and caved, stretched and folded.

So I started again… slowly.

Unknowing you came first.

Then reconnecting with myself.

Who am I now?

So I put in the work. Just me in the kitchen in a black crochet dress bought in Bali, the fabric hugging curves, standing barefoot on cold tiles while the kettle rattled itself toward a boil.

Just me with crusty eyes, with coffee on my morning breath, lugging laundry in the sunshine.

Just me in a quiet house, rattling around, tripping over cats, and leaning into the light breeze coming through the patio doors.

Munching on cold toast slathered in butter and fig jam, wondering how I could possibly beat this old body into shape if I didn’t control my love of carbs…

Move…

A thought floated into my mind crowded with images of the new you I will never get to meet.

Move, gather your tired bones, your dodgy knees and lazy ass, and move. One foot in front of the other, till you flow…

My thoughts flashed suggestions about returning to the covers to hide out and morph into an old hag writhing in bitterness and regret.

My soul was on fire, remembering the times I was almost beaten, only to rise out of the dumpster fires…

And somewhere outside, a delivery truck was reversing with that bloody, persistent beep... beep... beep interrupting my thoughts.

I stood there with butter melting into my toast, coffee going cold beside me, and suddenly realized I was humming inside, the ignition already set, and the gear engaged.

You can do it… again… for you, it's never too late.

I half-believed her, that fool who didn’t know how to give up.

Still here.

Maybe a bit older—okay, a lot older.

Maybe a little wearier and a lot less brave.

But with a deep sigh and heavy heart, she took the first steps, tripped over the cat, spilled the coffee, remembering how her name sounded on his tongue.

And somehow, this was enough.

It felt like life had quietly slipped back through the cracks while I wasn't looking.

It was in the small things: the dab of red lipstick, the tiny white T-shirt, and reclaiming “Mi Chico” for herself.

So she danced and flowed until she finally remembered her name.

And perhaps that is the most beautiful thing about starting over.