STANCING IN SEPTEMBER

I recently attended the wedding of the son of one of my oldest friends. The horn section was blowing, and the cover band sang, “Do you remember the 21st night of September?” All eleven of us rushed to the dance floor and boogied down and belted out every word, just like we were back in high school. Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t actually boogie, but I did a lot of stancing – standing in place and moving my body to the music.

I was channeling my inner teenager. Not the part laden with mood swings, insecurity, and peer pressure, but the magical, free teenager who allows me to be spontaneous with joy and laughter, be filled with wonder and curiosity, to have fun for fun's sake, and to stand on the edge of possibility.

I’m not sugarcoating the struggles of being a teenager. But for me, along with the heartaches, came a time when deep friendships were formed, giving me a sense of belonging through shared experiences. Together, we used humor and sometimes questionable antics to poke fun at authority and release the tension of academic pressures. Those girls I met in high school grew into incredible women who still laugh and cry together. The days we spent together melted into one another and helped transform my good metal into an even stronger alloy.

Hearing that song again, surrounded by my oldest friends, my trip down Memory Lane reminded me that it’s the ordinary moments and the people who travel with us that yield the rich soil that allows us to grow and thrive despite the adversity that comes. Those experiences are the counterweight to my pain and the foundation of my joy. Those women witnessed all the versions of me, and despite disagreeing with some of my choices, they loved me anyway.

There are lines on my face, I take up more space than I used to, and I have to settle for stancing instead of dancing, but that playful, expectant part of me is still there. Those crazy, beautiful women coax her out. She doesn’t scold me for forgetting about her. She understands that adulting is hard and being sick is serious business. Instead, she shouts, “There’s still room for me!” She’s not just a remnant from my youth – she’s a vital part of my resilience.