On synchronicity, identity and...
... a little thing called hope
On the Outside (Looking In) is a mostly weekly newsletter. If you read something here that you makes you think, or ask questions or see things a little differently, I’d love it if you could share that with me (comment or hit reply!). Or share it with someone else who you know loves to ask questions or think or change their perspective. You never know what might happen.
Whatever you do, thank you. Every comment, like, email or share means a great deal to me.
In it, together.
Synchronicity is everywhere.
In the midst of burnout and overwhelm, everyone around me seems to feel the same. They are also stressed, in tears. The milk made many of us cry.
Must be something in the air, we say. Maybe the water.
Or maybe, we see what we want to see. We see the things that we need to see. After all, misery does love company.
Who am I?
I have tried many different identities on. Sometimes, I have changed them frequently, like clothes. Sometimes, I have left them on for so long, they become a tattoo, or perhaps skin. I have layered them, blended them together, shredded some to rags in shame, disgust.
That handwriting in that homework diary, that was one identity. The next year, it changed, from cursive to blocky and cute (I thought). I had grown tired of the person I was that insisted on cursive. And what about the person I was when my hair became deepest scarlet? Or when I inked tattoos onto my body, a declaration that this really is the real me.
Then one day, over years, I came to hear the truest, deepest song of my core, the song made of all the layers, the clothes, the skins I have worn, the song that suddenly needs to be heard, to be freed.
I have stripped them back, peeling layers off. Some come away easily. That is not me anymore. And definitely not that. Some of them hold on, I try and try to shake them until I realise that I’m the one holding onto them.
I am shedding my skin. Piece by piece.
Here I am.
Who am I made of?
Standing and speaking in front of 20 people I know should be easy. Right?
And yet, my hands shook. Unfortunately, this was obvious because I could barely hold on to the full Prosecco glass. It’s OK, that’s what tables are for. But what about making the toast? Time to go, Karen, just speak.
I thanked everyone for coming for this, my mum’s second 70th birthday party (second party, not second 70th birthday, for clarity…). I joked, I toasted, I read a poem written by a family friend. I went to tell my mum just how much I love her and could barely get the words out. I raised a glass to absent friends, to my dad. Then I handed off to another family friend to make an equally unprepared speech, but no less emotional.
Today, I received a text from one of the family friends who was at the party. He has known me since I was born. He worked with my dad.
And today, he told me how, when I stood and spoke, it took him back to the times listening to my dad, to his mannerisms, his ability, and authority to hold people’s attention.
Perhaps there is something in the line from the Lion King, between Simba and a dead Mufasa:
“You have forgotten who you are and so you have forgotten me.” - Mufasa to Simba, The Lion King, Disney.
In being wholly me, in fully standing in my own identity, in remembering who I am, I remember my dad.
Receiving that text brought home to me how proud I am of my dad, of who he was, despite it all.
In being me, he lives on.
What is hope?
How would you define it? To wish for something in the future, to feel a desperation for a future to transpire? What does it mean to you?
I had a little look at the etymology of it and found, as with many words, that the definition has changed over time.
Hope (v.)
From Old English hopian: “to have trust, have confidence; assume confidently or trust” (that something is or will be so)
When did hope fade from being a matter of trusting to a matter of desperately wanting?
Perhaps I should restore hope to its original meaning and learn to trust.
This ends too.
When I am hurt, can I remember that the pain ends, and find peace in that fact? Does this actually ease the pain? Perhaps we sometimes mistake the pain itself for the hopelessness we feel in the midst of the hurt.
I was hurt. I was shamed. I felt humiliated.
Amongst it all, I could see no hope. I couldn’t see a future in which I wasn’t hurt more. Which is, of course, very dramatic, but doesn’t pain have a wonderful way of blinkering us to reality?
In the middle of the pain, of the worry, I started to write. In the past, I didn’t often do this. I deliberately picked up my pain to write through this, to give myself the medicine that is writing. In that space, I was also sent this piece by
.Within a short space of time, I went from tears of shame, fear, and pain to a strange sense of empathy and compassion for the perpetrator of my hurt, and, most importantly, hope.
In returning to hope, in remembering that this, too, will pass, the pain eased, and I could enjoy my day, carrying with me a little parcel of pain and worry, instead of being lost in it.
Thank you so much for coming along on this little journey with me. My week has been topsy-turvy to say the least and I am grateful to have so many amazing writers here who inspire me, comfort me and make me want to be here, writing my own story. A special thank you to , , , , and . You have, in your own ways, made things better and easier.
Thank you to all my other readers too. Writing this newsletter, writing here on Substack, is something I didn’t come into this year looking for, and finding it has been unbelievable.
I hope your week is beautiful and full of hope and trust.
K x
P.S. It would mean the world if you could share this with someone you think needs to hear it. Here’s the button!
I’m taking part in the Essay Club run by Claire Venus. This is essay 6/24 to be published by 31st Jan 2025.
OMG, I wrote something related to the identity and I think you would like as I like this myself. Thank you for these words.
Oh Karen this is beautiful. I feel the love for your dad, and how you reflect upon this in your own words and actions is so very moving. My dad would never stand up and speak, it wasn't his thing, but I hear his gentle wisdom in my mind every day, and try and pass on the same. He also used to rescue bees, and now I do too...and then you found your bee. Love love love x