Today is the third anniversary of the day that I ceased to be me, just me, and became me, the survivor. And what’s extraordinary about today is that it was totally, in every way, ordinary.
I worked (at home; no childcare today).
I made breakfast and lunch for my boys.
I escorted a tentative new bike rider to the park.
I went for an 18-mile ride along the Mississippi and around the lakes on a perfect summer evening.
I read the news, unable to tear my eyes from the news from Ferguson, Missouri.
I texted with my mom and sent my husband to the grocery store.
I drank a beer on the deck in the waning August light.
They say time heals all wounds, and while that’s not technically true, it does broaden a girl’s perspective. Three years ago I had no idea who I would become, who this new me would be and I wondered about that, aloud and alone.
Today, I do know her, and I like her. Respect her. Am proud of her. Today, I was just me again. Me, the mom. Me, a professional. Me, a wife, a daughter, a friend. Ordinary, regular, survivor-in-training me.
So then it was three, and that’s extraordinary.