It feels like so much has changed, yet as I reread my words from an old tattered journal, I see not much has changed at all.
I’m still 5’1, I still drink coffee with too much sugar, and I still miss you as much as the day you left.
I still smile with all my teeth, grip onto my pen the way I gripped onto you, and twist my left foot until it’s facing 4 p.m. every time someone says, “You’re beautiful.”
My heart still beats to the sound of Portuguese, I still don’t eat mayonnaise, and I still think about you often.
A few things have changed though.
I’m beginning to make eye contact.
I’m beginning to say no.
I’m beginning to see the beauty in my imperfections.
My hair is darker, I now sport bifocals, and I’ve taken off the coat I once wore—one with scapegoat embroidered on the back.
There’s a hop to my step, a sparkle to my eyes, and a different soundtrack playing in the background of my life.
It feels like so much has changed, yet, not much has changed at all. I’ve only chipped off the nail polish that once covered my authenticity.
It’s difficult to stand naked and vulnerable, but here I stand.
There are BB-size holes in the heart of my younger selves and a few from this last year.
I’m no longer covering them with toxic positivity.
Rather, I stand here, holes and all, and say hi.
My name’s Rebecca, and this is my story. There are many things that have changed, and yet, not much has changed at all.