Today is the day that this move home becomes real. It’s the day that school starts again, only I’m not in Nashville. I’m at home. On Saturday, I finished my unpacking. It felt backward, really. It was the end of spring break. I should have been packing up again, but instead I reached the end of the to-do list I’d come home with. The drapes were hung, the furniture was rearranged, the laundry was done, the clothes were put away, the books were shelved, and the storage bins were in the garage.
I sat at my desk, trying to settle into the quiet. I’ve had a lot of practice living here. After all, I’ve been doing it my whole life. Still, when you leave a place, it changes. So do you. And I still haven’t figured out what that means for this move. I’m here to mend—to rest. Healing isn’t something that happens in an instant. It’s not something you do. It’s something you grow into.
But I don’t know what that looks like on a day-to-day basis. Right now, it’s a lot of little things—nothing and everything all at the same time. It’s figuring out how much to sleep and when to go to bed, it’s getting to the bottom of what I actually can and can’t eat, and it’s following the plan set out for me by my nutritionist. There are no decisions with instant earth-shattering consequences. There is only the long, slow work of getting better.
The road has been long, and there is still death ahead. I’m starting to see life, though, too. It’s little things right now, but it’s mending no less. Last week, for the first time since I can remember, I left a medical appointment with concrete answers and, wonder of wonders, even a little bit of hope. I’m learning that this is going to take time. I’m learning to give myself space, to do the things that make me whole and not the ones that fracture me into a million pieces.
The thing is, life goes on without me. I’m not as essential as I’d like to think. Nobody likes sitting out while everyone else keeps playing, but sometimes, that’s the best thing you can do. So I’m resting. I’m home, and life is carrying on all around me without my involvement.
It’s terrifying, but it’s such a relief. I don’t know what’s next yet, or how this whole thing is going to end, but I’m starting to think that there might just be resurrection after all.