My Body Remembers.

I wasn't sure if I would write about the one year mark of being back in the states. It seems surreal to type that out even still. I wasn't going write because I figured I've already touched on so many angles of this past year and the ongoing feeling on unsettlement and grief. However, the past several restless nights of anxiety had me awake and typing away, so here it goes: What came from my late-night writing is this theme on physical memory, trauma-versaries, and whether or not I'd go back and do it again.

I think all of us have a handful of moments in our memory that we won't ever forget; good or bad, there is something in the memory that left a physical imprint on our bodies and it only takes a smell, a sound, a touch, to take us right back to that moment. Maybe you don't remember what you were wearing, what time of day it was, or even the date. Maybe you don't know what was said or the events surrounding the moment, but you can remember the sounds, sensation, or smell as if it happened only minutes ago. For example; It's how I don't remember what I did on this specific day, or even who was standing next to me, but I will forever feel the cold tile beneath my feet and every piercing sound as the ambulance pulled away. It's how I can smell only a hint of baby powder and immediately be taken back to the aroma of it leftover on their skin. The weight of their body in my arms. The silky softness of their hair when I brush my hand through it.

Even now, a year later, my body knows more than my mind. I keep myself distracted with the new and the busy day to day of our American life, but my body reminds me. Anxiety lays under my feet like hot coals, sorrow wraps me in its weighted blanket and insomnia tells me I’m suffocating under it. Fear consumes my dreams and the pressure of memories leaves a fierce pounding in my head. I try to figure out why my body feels the way it does—then I realize it’s remembering; it’s telling me what January feels like. It’s remembering what February 1st feels like. It knows deep down that we’ve come full circle and it’s walking in fear and pain of what was and what was to come. It’s flashing warning signs at me to protect myself from the trauma. When I feel tense and rigid, I’m feeling the armor being put on to shield me from the hurt. I can't even to begin imagine what some children go through during “trauma-versaries” of their own horrors. What their bodies must endure in remembrance and warning. Maybe the trauma of their past is so far away that they can’t even remember it with their mind. But their bodies can. Our bodies hold memories longer than our conscious mind ever could. It’s like when I smell St. Ives lotion and it immediately takes me back to the summer I spent in a rodent infested cabin in Wyoming (and why I can never buy that brand again). Or how I can look at an old photo and remember exactly what the fabric of my mom’s shirt felt like on my cheek, or my dad's callused hands. It’s how I can’t begin to remember the notes to Für Elise on the piano, but if I close my eyes and clear my mind, my fingers do it for me. Just like the lump in my throat today remembers the lump in my throat one year ago when I zipped up my last suitcase. Just like the fear and anxiety that haunted my sleep last night mirrors the torment my body felt while laying in my bed that last night in China. It’s a lot to sink in...but I’m letting it sink. I’m letting it fill my entire being before taking an enormous exhale.

Let’s treat our bodies kindly today—because they’re carrying our heaviest burdens and sweetest memories within them.

The photos below are the last three pictures on my phone before leaving for America.

1. I didn't know this would be my last photo taken with a child--but I'm glad it was Jackson. He knows more about trauma, grief, resilience and hope than I could ever fathom. He is a hero in every sense of the word, and I love that we shared that last moment together.

2. My room in complete chaos as I attempted to pack up my life in less than 30 hours. Pretty sure I sent this to my mom with a text that said something along the lines of, "help".

3. I don't know when this was taken in the timeline of those hectic last hours but I'm glad I have it.

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Even if I knew what the outcome would be—even if we knew how it would all unfold/unravel...if I knew how the loss and grief and anger and anxiety and confusion would consume so many days and nights...even if I never get to go back. I would choose to do it over and over again. Because entering into another soul's life and witnessing their realities is what we all long to do. If we didn't put ourselves out of our comfort zones and humble ourselves to experience something new and hard, how would we learn humility? How would we know how to feel empathy with others or fight for justice? Life is so often leading us in passion and purpose and hope. Its fiery drive and quiet peace. It’s the thing inside us that says “this”. This is it. This is what it’s all about. And it won’t be easy, it won’t always be fun. It might not always feel like your dream come true. Many days will be filled with far more tears than laughter. But this is everything. Don’t let it go. It’s worth it.

This is my story and the place that led me to ask those questions and break me down in order to find my whole self. The experiences I had, the tragedies I witnessed , the miracles that happened, the ones that didn't, and the stories I'm so honored to carry with me. It's all because of a small voice that told tiny Hannah that there was somewhere else she had to be. There was a spot for her across the ocean where she would someday land. I believe we all have that thing that drives us, that excites us, that calls to us even if it's scary or seemingly impossible. Gently probing and encouraging us to step out in faith to just try. Because there is something your unique self can learn and teach. All of our beautifully golden-dusted cracks and scars have a special place to deepen, an important lesson to learn, wisdom to pass on, and a glorious story to be told.

I don't know what this next year will hold. I'm getting pretty used to that. But even when I'm not okay, I know I will be. I know I'm being held. I know it, even when I don't feel it. If these past four years have taught me anything, it's that I have so, so much more to learn. All I have to do is let go of my control, take deep breaths, and be.

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Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. - Robert Frost