If you’ve been following me for a while, you may know that Saturday and I have a complicated history.
Because Saturday was the day when my life took a turn for the worse. Saturday was the day I got the worst news of my life. Saturday was the day when so much of what I believed I knew to be true about myself, my life, and the world was shattered in a single instant.
And you know, the human brain, as magnificent as it is, has a funny way of dealing with trauma… it uses memory loss in a desperate attempt to make you remember less, feel less, suffer less.
For a long time, PTSD stole all my memories of the Saturdays that followed my loss. Every single one. I couldn’t remember anything that had happened on a Saturday, no matter how hard I tried. Even if you asked me about it on a Sunday, I couldn’t tell you what I’d done the day before.
The not remembering was hard in ways I can’t always describe.
To feel lost and turned around inside your own life… it’s a special kind of awful.
But the gift was that it forced me to be more present in the here and now. It taught me to ask for support and receive it from the ones I loved. It caused me to grow in ways I never knew I needed to.
There’s always a gift in the struggle if we decide to look.
It just takes a little time to reveal itself.