Cracks in the Armor

Have you ever experienced a sense of sinking recognition? It’s almost like a sudden and acute awareness that your identity and reality are undeniably dissonant. For me, these moments tend to happen when it is quiet. When there is time and space to hear the hum of not just the loudest frequencies, but the quieter ones too.  

The first time I can remember this happening was when I was sixteen. I pulled into the parking lot of my high school’s football field—the one that was used for soccer games too. There were no cars in the lot, no players on the field, and no one left to yell at me for being there after hours. I killed the engine, and for what seemed like the first time in forever, there was silence. That was where I heard it…I am a soccer player who has to leave the game that she loves behind. 

It happened again when I was eighteen. I pulled up to a small residential park that I had spotted from the road—the kind meant for neighborhood kids, and only really meant to be used during the day. I rested onto one of the swings, let myself sway gently, and fixed my eyes on the night sky. The air was silent and still. It was a kind of peace I had not felt in weeks…not since before my dad had died. It was in that stillness where I felt it…I am a daughter who has to live the rest of her life without her father.

Another moment happened when I was twenty. I passed art studio after art studio as I made my way toward the loading dock—the one that was used to haul in materials for theater sets and oversized sculptures. I stepped out onto the wide stretch of pavement and moved slowly, without purpose. The warm air of a Tucson night settled around me and I took, what felt like, my first real breath of the day. It was that deep breath that granted me yet another hard truth…I am an artist who has lost touch with feeling itself. 

Well, it’s happening again. Twenty-seven years old, I lie on my bed alone in my bedroom, illuminated by an Arizona sunset — and it is irrefutable…I am a romantic who no longer believes love will find her. 

As you can imagine, these kinds of recognition bring with them a sense of fear and deep pain. That’s probably why it’s all too easy to run away. 

Soccer didn’t mean that much to me. The concussions weren’t that painful. I can find other hobbies to enjoy. I am not a negative person–I’m an optimistic one. It’s not a big deal. 

My dad wouldn’t want me to dwell on it. At least it was quick. I am not a sad person–I’m a joyful one. I will not let this define me. 

It’s not that bad. Other people have it worse. I have a roof over my head and food on my plate. I am not a depressed person–I’m a happy one. Feeling nothing at all is better than feeling fear and pain. It’s not that bad.  

Over the years, I’ve gathered millions of words and shaped them into every reason, reassurance, and quiet denial I could think of. But now, I see they all meant the same thing…I don’t have to face this. 

And, if I don’t have to face this, I don’t have to change. 

Thankfully, these truths found their way in. 

At the time, I didn’t realize how valuable those quiet moments were. But now I do. Change didn’t happen all at once—because real change takes time. But in the quiet, the softness and ease of those nights, the truth found an opening. It permeated my armor and left behind cracks—cracks through which the pain, the pressure, and the weight could slowly trickle through. Over time, those forces shifted how I saw myself. And, with that, shifted how I moved through the world.

So, what now? I am a romantic who no longer believes love will find her. 

What if this time, the truth didn’t have to slip in under the cover of night? What if it didn’t have to catch me off guard, waiting for a moment of unconscious vulnerability? What if, this time, I chose to be open? What if the forces of change didn’t need to sneak in through some crack, but rather, through a door I chose to leave open myself?

Even in the few days since I have opened myself up to this truth, a few things have become clear.

Being a romantic is not a guarantee that love will find me.

Seeing love, appreciating love, even believing in it, does not mean I’m ready to receive it myself. 

And most compassionately, love was never going to find this version of me. 

So, how do I become the person that love, true love, can find?  

Honestly, I don’t have the answer yet. That’s a story for a future me to tell.