N.D. Wilson, Death By Living 

I turned 18 in 2015. The same week I moved into my college dorm. I couldn’t keep my room clean or my bank account full, but somewhere in the distance, there was freedom. I was filled to the brim with all sorts of expectations about life and love. 

I didn’t date in high school. Told myself (and others) that it was because dating in high school was pointless (jury is still out on this). Looking back, I think the real reason was because I was the kind of girl you wanted on your co-ed basketball team, not as your prom date. I feel no sadness about this. I only really had two crushes in high school and I got exactly what I needed out of them (poetry). 

The day college began, a switch flipped and I was ready to fall(!!) in(!!!) love(!!!!). Not desperate, but secretly longing. In hindsight, the shift was electric. Maybe even strangely compelling. A subtle foreshadowing that the decade to come would be marked by love (and a little heartbreak: poetry). 

One of the most surprising things about my emergence into adulthood was all the falling in love. Boys weren’t asking me out but I was utterly enamored by platonic love. Surprised by it even. Hyperaware that love was everywhere, shaping me even, to look more like love. It wasn’t just the friendship that was unparalleled, it was the simple invitation of life. What could be around the corner? Might it be wonderful? Where will  we go next? How will it change us? 

I did not fall in love with a boy that year, but I did have a million laughs with my roommates. We wrote terrible songs on the ukulele. We kept a tally of the winner of card games and posted them on the fridge. We got yelled at in basketball practice, but we were together. Love.

Maybe the greatest of all things really is love 

I turned 19 after a summer of counting turtles basking in the sun. We slept under the stars; roofs were a distant memory. I say we, because few moments were spent alone. Friendship was formed in minutes, it hasn’t been since but it was then. Maybe friendship is easier outdoors. That year, I learned to tell stories and to ask questions. I forfeited my basketball scholarship to help plant a church in Missouri and it broke my heart. 

Hearts only break if you’ve been in love

I turned 20 and dropped out of college. Working in a hospital coffee shop; we were a bunch of misfits. It’s important to be a misfit. Misfits are secretly the funniest. I still remember when I poured latte art for a nurse and we both looked down at my “art” and saw not a heart, but a perfectly poured penis. We laughed (I cried). I eventually re-enrolled in college and unpacked my boxes for the third time in three years. 

Let all you do be done in love (like pouring latte art, amongst other things) 

I turned 21 in a Nashville bar. I had half a glass of rose and my best friend at my side. I was in Nashville because I wrote a job description for myself at a dream company. To my surprise, they accepted. Unfortunately, I didn’t include payment in the description so I had to work as a waitress as well. It was so hot that summer a blue crayon quite literally melted in my apron. I spent so much time working that I didn’t make many friends, but I did spend a lot of time in my attic apartment, writing poetry, and learning to love myself. 

How can you love another as you love yourself if you don’t love yourself? 

I turned 22 in Breckenridge, Colorado. I remember, because I got a bloody nose from the elevation.  My boyfriend(!!!) was helping me move out west. I had no real plans but I knew I was head-over-heels for the mountains, and they were kinda into me too. 

Can confirm it worked out

I turned 23 in my Montana backyard after a year of everyone losing their jobs and wearing masks in grocery stores. I was getting paid to plant flowers while getting yelled at from my boss on the regular(???) but Brooklyn and I were laughing everyday. I told my boyfriend, “I love you” for the first time that summer. Turns out he had fallen for me too. I guess romantic love is pretty cool too. He sold his fishing gear and bought a ring. 

Better than I dreamed 

I turned 24 in complete darkness. Fighting for my life with only borrowed strength, begging for love to show up. I distinctly remember the clock ticking past midnight on new years eve. I wept; we wept. We. and for what felt like for the first time in a long time, I remembered all of you. I still cry when I remember. 

If there’s no fear in love where are my wits? 

I turned 25 and started grad school (a quarter life crisis thing). Business school reminded me how much I hate math and how much I love theater. I walked to class every day, cried in professors' offices, made new friends; I sought out the misfits, we laughed.. I bit off more than I could chew but I chomped anyway. I stood up for myself. I walked out on a professor. I learned to shake things up a bit. 

Learning to love shaking the dust 

I turned 26 and was whisked off to Europe, twice. I famously (accidentally) booked a room with one twin bed for five nights. We had gelato every day and spent too much money. We saw a little more of the world and it made me want to see a little more of the world. Learn a little more about people. Taste a couple more types of pastas.  

Now I require yearly trips across the pond and that just might make me insufferable. 

I turned 27 on the whitewater of the yellowstone river. I had a really good feeling about 27 because 17 was such a good year, and because the year started on the water (the best place to be). 27 was a good year, despite it being a terrible year; I’d do it all over again. 

It never gets old falling in love 

I turned 28 in 2025. A decade of adulthood. I regret some things. Maybe even many  things. But no regrets about loving any of you.

When April sun kissed our faces, I was compression-socked up, booted up, and crutching around. I was drama drama drama. Oh the trails I wouldn’t ride! Oh the mountains I wouldn’t summit! Oh the shenanigans I couldn’t participate in! My FOMO had FOMO!

And for dramatic effect, It would have been poetic if I had a miserable summer. However, I must tell you: my summer was filled to the brim with joy.

I have not found the words to communicate exactly why. For now, just trust me. And know that I will tell you when I know.

It’s been eight months + a few weeks since I tore the strongest tendon in my body. At some point in the last few months, I stopped asking why. Not because I lost my curiosity, but because I grew tired of asking the question no one could answer.

I no longer have daily flash-backs of the trauma. Every now and again, I’ll remember the fresh snap, the gut feeling of something terribly wrong. When it happens, I have to take a deep breath and remind myself I stand on two feet.

My PT tells me I’m not favoring either leg. I smile, because I know. He also tells me to expect three years for my calves to be symmetrical. Cool, I guess.

I’m learning to run again! The workouts take place on the track where I run the straights and walk the curves for up to eight laps. When I’m on the track, I get flashbacks to high school track & field. I’m flooded with a little bit of nostalgia and a whole lot of anxiety. Tempted, for the first time in years, to see if I can get back to my 400 PR from ten years ago. I think I can, (in a year or so) I’ll keep you posted.

The other day, Alex and I were hiking in the foot hills, talking about my recovery. I told him that up until recently, the overwhelming feeling of the injury was the realization that my body can break. It felt like a loss of innocence of sorts. All I could think about was that my body can brake and will break. But recently, something shifted. Now all I can think about is that my body can heal. That it will heal. And I feel as if that narrative has infiltrated the whole of my person.

Anyway, I got carried away. I was telling you about my summer. Look at my face!

Okay, that’s all for now. Maybe next time I’ll tell you about England or Italy or the unraveling that’s happened within. I do have more to say than just achilles updates. So much, in fact, you could get sick of me.

xoxo

em

Two months have flown by and dragged on.

I’ve pondered so many things in these last eight weeks. One of them being the realization that people love to give unsolicited advice and most of the time it… well it could use an editor.

What I mean is, I’ve been told that this happened because God wants more time with me.

I’ve been told, it’s hard to come back from that kind of injury.

I’ve been told countless (terrible) stories about someone who knows someone who’s torn not one, but both achilles. Dear reader, this is never helpful information.

Not all of the advice/opinions/stories I’ve received have been terrible. And I know everyone really does mean well, so in a roundabout sort of way, these comments can still make me feel loved. There really is no hate, but even well intentioned words need editing sometimes.

I really hope I’m not sounding sarcastic or negative. In fact, my spirits really are high. I feel so loved, so surrounded by support (what a beautiful thing!). So inspired by life, and so ready to get back out there.

Mostly, I’m here to tell you that I’m going to be fine. In fact, I have this suspicion that I will actually be better than I was before. My PT is happy with my progress and so am I! The first few weeks after my injury, I could not even look at my leg. The betrayal was too intense. Now, I can look at it, I can touch it, and I even think kindly towards it. It has been healing so well!

I also want to tell you that I’m still grieving. I believe I can hold both realities at once. Just last week, I was the culprit behind a puddle of tears in the corner of the PT facility. I still cry about this injury most days. I still long to go for my morning walk. I still look at the mountains that surround me and grieve the fact that I will go a full summer without a summit.

Yesterday I was cleared to walk without a boot! I now walk slowly, awkwardly, with crutches. The joy it brings me to feel all my muscles come back online. I look at my leg, atrophied from the knee down and I wonder why I ever hated parts of my body. Yet I still choke back tears when my PT tells me it will probably take another three months until I have symmetry in my calves. I do the math: July. It might not be the best I’ve ever looked in shorts or dresses this summer but I don’t care.

I fail to hold back tears when I’m told that there will be no mountain biking or running or hiking or jumping for a whole summer. I care a lot more about that.

I’ve never known a careful summer.

It’s not the training runs I’ll miss. It’s the running to give someone a hug. It’s chasing my nephew around the kitchen island. It’s jumping off of things and into water. It’s hiking at sunset to see the mountain goats. It’s hootin’ and hollerin’ on mountain bikes with friends.

That’s what I’m going to miss.

And before you say something, I’m not really at the point where I’m interested in what I can do this summer. I will find those joys when I get there. Right now, I will sit in the sun. I will drive around my dream neighborhoods. I will plan a trip to Europe in the fall.

Life is short, it’s also very long. I will grieve and I will laugh. And I will remember all the friends who held me along the way.

February 16th, I was playing basketball on my city league team. A Sunday night routine that has brought me so much child-like joy. It was the second to last game of the season. There was less than a minute left. We were up by six.

Our team was transitioning from defense to offense and I was running the floor. The way I’ve always loved to play basketball, fast. The very thing I was recruited to do in college: get out ahead of everyone else. A teammate passed me the ball.

I caught the ball, turned, and planted my left foot. Instantly, it felt like someone had jumped in the back of my leg, determined to hurt me. In the same motion, I turned to yell at whoever intentionally injured me and realized that no one was around. When I went to plant my left foot again, I noticed that my left leg felt significantly shorter than my right. I was unable to bear my weight.

My teammates carried me off the court and my mind spun. I had never been injured before. Not even an ankle sprain that kept me from sports practice. It still makes me cry when I tell people that it felt like my body had betrayed me. The body I intentionally care for every day. The body that’s taken me on impressive adventures and great athletic feats.

I’m not going to go into all of the details about what happened next that evening, but I will give you a few highlights. According to my teammates, I turned dark green. According to me, I’m surprised I had the willpower not to throw up. Alex was asleep in Austin, TX, with his phone on airplane mode. Five friends saw me weep for the first time ever. I only slept for 43 minutes.

The next morning, I headed to the orthopedic urgent care accompanied by three friends. One who’s a PT and sat with me in the doctor's office while the PA confirmed a full achilles tear. I then got an x-ray because I guess sometimes achilles ruptures can take bone off with it?! That was not the case for me, the x-ray looked good.

I then returned to our basement apartment that I have called home for four years. A space that’s no stranger to my tears or fears. An odd comfort. More on that later.

At noon, I hopped on a call with my spiritual director, Hollie. We cried together, and I witnessed courage in her eyes. She knows grief, and she held mine to the light. I went into our conversation feeling dark dark dark, but I left curious about hope.

Alex made it home around dinner time and I don’t know who started crying first. He held me, he’s no stranger to holding me.

To my surprise, his presence seemed to increase my grief. I was more aware of the loss that this injury was. I wanted to help shovel snow and dance in the kitchen and hug him standing up. I wanted to go for an after dinner walk. I wanted to plan our next adventure. I realized we wouldn’t be biking in Moab to celebrate our anniversary.

On Thursday, we headed to meet with my surgeon for the surgery consultation. Something I was dreading. That morning, before heading in, I woke up with this picture in my head. I told Alex, “I feel like my achilles is reaching for itself.”

Most achilles tears are low achilles tears. Think: right above the heel. Surgeons typically don’t MRI achilles ruptures, instead they just palpate the achilles, feel the obvious tear, and operate. During my consultation, the surgeon was palpating my achilles and he couldn’t find my tear. Because of this, he told me that there’s a chance I had a high achilles tear. Something not as common, but he would need to MRI it to be sure.

My MRI was on Friday, my surgery was scheduled for Wednesday. On Monday, I was called and told that I had a high achilles rupture. Meaning, my achilles ripped out of my calf. Lovely! On Tuesday, the surgeon told me that he wouldn’t operate because my achilles rupture is at the musculotendinous junction of the calf and achilles. He told me that because muscles have so much blood flow, my calf muscle will heal my tendon without surgery. Wild! Also, shoutout to my left calf for putting the team on her back!

The relief I felt. I prayed I would not have to be cut open. I only want scars from tree branches.

After I learned that I wouldn’t need surgery, I celebrated that my healing had started a minute after the injury. My PT told me that after two weeks, my body had laid all the necessary tissues (he described it as scaffolding) to reconnect my achilles to the calf. Bodies are beautiful. We were designed to heal.

Some mornings, I wake up and intuitively feel like my brain has more connection to my foot than it did before. Sure enough, I get up to do my PT and my foot has more range of motion than the day or week before.

The healing process has been humbling and beautiful. I am so proud of my body.

This brings me to today. It’s been a month, I’m still on crutches. I go to PT twice a week and I will continue for a year. Alex was able to be home for three weeks straight, which is the longest he’s been home consecutively since he began flying commercial airplanes. Our time together has been so sweet. I’ve never been so taken care of in my life. He has tricked me more times than once to believe that though I’m injured, we’re having the best time.

Lastly, I want to mention our friends. I wondered who was going to help me when Alex had to go to work. Who would show up? Everyone showed up. Friends bathed me, fed me, cleaned my house, drove me places, sat on the couch and talked for hours. Friends brushed my hair and cried with me and brought me flowers and sat in the sun with me, washed my dished.

I looked for the helpers and I saw them everywhere.

<3

I will be writing about the mental, spiritual, emotional, and poetical aspect of healing in my next post. Stay tuned :)

It’s like I blinked and my 20s were over. My twenties aren’t over, I’m only 27 (and dramatic). But you get my point. 

On good days, I think: Wow! Life is beautiful! I’m so grateful that I’ve done so much! 

On bad days, I think: What have I done with my life? Have I done ANYTHING with my life?

Wednesday was a particularly bad day until it became a good day. I sat across from a friend. A friend who can read me like a book. A friend who’s presence is restful & safe. I confessed to her that “I never felt regret until this year.” I told her I despised the feeling. Told her it felt so lonely. Then, I began to weep. 

You see, I have taken my 27 years of life very seriously. By life, I mean dreams. I’ve chased things. I’ve walked confidently through open doors, showed up uninvited, knocked on some doors, and even knocked some down. I’ve traveled to a lot of places, loved a lot of people, tasted a lot of cuisines. Professionally, I’ve tried a little bit of everything, while somehow maintaining extreme loyalty to my employers and colleagues. I save my money; I even invest. I’m a good neighbor and a good friend. And a bunch of other things I can’t think of right now. 

All that is true, but what is also true is that I’m not proud of every decision I’ve made. No particulars I care to tell you. Just not proud. The only thing I can think to call this feeling is… regret…

Doing everything in my power not to spiral, I decided to lean into these sad feelings. I was convinced I had ruined my 20s (lol) so I decided to write down everything that I remember from my twenties. 

Picture this: me, sobbing while typing away at my computer. Aggressive sobbing. Aggressive typing. Who knew weeping could be so grounding? 

An hour passed and I looked at my computer. My goal was to get through the last seven years of life. In over an hour, I only made it through a year and a half. Here’s some of what I wrote. 

20

I remember the sun on my back. 

I remember handwritten letters and the solar eclipse. 

I remember I worked at a coffee shop in a hospital. When we closed the shop, we would blast Nickleback.

I remember throwing the most epic Christmas concert in a warehouse because we could. Because we were creatives! Because we were angsty! Because we were famous!

I remember camping in Colorado with Kyle, Spencer, Dustin, and Sam. I remember Sam’s altitude sickness and writing (to this day) one of my favorite poems. 

I remember the Scova Notia World Tour. I remember accidentally telling Madi that Jake had never been to California even though he told her he had on their first date. I remember my aunt forcing Davis to play his guitar for her. I remember Greg walking around in Grand Junction, CO. I remember driving by the Moab exit and we didn’t stop. 

I remember landing at the Madison, WI, airport and being picked up by a boy with curly hair and a smile that caught my attention. I remember learning that boy was going to learn to fly in the fall. I remember we were friends almost instantly. 

I remember kayaking on the Baraboo, and feeling like a little kid while swimming in the Wolf River with Grace and Glo. I remember the way Grace held me in the kitchen when I was terrified. 

I remember emails back and forth. I remember knowing I had the best friends. I remember my Nashville apartment and how the bathroom had carpet. I remember the first time I ate bacon-wrapped-goat-cheese-stuffed-dates. I remember eating tacos with Jon Foreman.  

I remember driving to see Jimmy Carter in Plains, GA. Yapping with Tracy at 2 a.m. Walking into a church full of southern belles AND the Secret Service while wearing a sunflower crop top. I remember the Peanut butter Ice cream after and learning that iphones can screen record. 

I remember writing poetry and hoping Alex would call. 

21

I remember turning 21 in Nashville. Having half a glass of rose wine and dancing to Party in the USA in some Nashville bar. 

I remember driving to Indiana. I remember it was the day before senior year began. I spontaneously changed my major. Grace sauteed zucchini. We read our journals together on Glo’s kitchen floor. Girlhood. 

I remember Silverthorne, CO at sunrise. I remember fondue in Vail. I remember how much we loved the Sonnenalp Robes.

I remember going to Moab for Spring break. I remember Jack hitchhiking to Salt Lake City. I remember thinking, “Who is this guy?”

I remember making jokes with Bradley during our photojournalism class. I remember Annie's help in our Adobe photoshop class. I remember First Amendment days and the Full Send Friday Podcast and interviewing Mary Beth Tinker. 

I remember 6am phone calls. 

I remember skipping graduation to pick up Alex from the airport. 

I remember building a deck with Alex in the rain and biking to the high trestle bridge and wondering if I was in love. 

I remember standing next to Connor at the fire. And the way that Higgins surprised me with plans to go dog sledding. I remember meeting Jeff. I remember being unsure of Jeff. I remember laughing so hard with Jeff. I remember loving Jeff. 

I remember the cookshack conversations and tears in the canoes. I remember paddling to the Mississippi and paddling upstream in a thunderstorm. I remember laughing so hard a decade must have been added to my life. 

I remember Alex asking me to be his girlfriend. 

I remember 3am, I-80 heading west towards my new home in Montana. I remember holding hands for the first time. 

I remember the sun on my face…

When I looked up from the computer, I realized that my head had stopped spinning tales of missed opportunities and could have should have would haves. The act of re-living so much joy was medicine for my soul. Remembering, an antidote for regret and shame. Remembering gave me the audacity to hope that it could get better and better. 

Here’s the advice part of this column for the twenty-somethings on the brink of fear & regret & shame. Write it down. Remember & revisit the good memories. Don’t worry too much about the resume. Worry enough to do the thing, but don’t worry so much that you forget that the good stuff is friendship & laughter & shared meals & road trips & love & love & love.

Love ya, 

Em

p.s. here are a few photos from the time of my “remembering.” Glo and Grace on the kitchen floor; My coffee shop coworkers and Nickleback stans, Calvin, Nick, and Angelica; Greg in Grand Junction, CO; Canoeing on the Wisconsin river :)

Over pizza, my husband (affectionately known as Alex), attempted to help me flesh out my thoughts for this post that he knew was frustrating me. He asked, “So, tell me about your 2023…” 

I just stared at him, and he stared back. I mean, he knew. He knows. We both look…tired? 

And then I thought: we fit a whole year into every month of 2023. It wasn’t that it was long, it was full. The pressure to eloquently and succinctly summarize twelve years in one substack is not what I need. So, let me tell you the first things that come to mind, in no particular chronological order. 

2023 was the year I graduated with a masters degree, and Alex started flying for a commercial airline, which meant he had a new job and reputation to navigate. He was away from home for more than 200 days. I made a bit of a career pivot. 

We said yes to every (yes, every) invite we received whether it was in NYC, Des Moines, IA, Northern Montana, Treeline coffee, Scotland, the Grand Canyon or beyond. We took a third honeymoon to Italy, visited my sister-in-law in Switzerland, and took a spontaneous trip to Spain to watch a time trial of the Vuelta a España #GCKUSS. 

I got to officiate my first wedding…barefoot (forgot my shoes). 

I served on two week long houseboat ministry trips in Arkansas, alongside some of my most favorite people. I began meeting with a spiritual director. I reconciled with two friends. That felt really good. 

We spent time on road bikes and mountain bikes and dreaming of gravel bikes (n+1 am I right?) We welcomed our first, perfect nephew. Spent time with both sides of the family. Spent time in the mountains. Went on morning walks and flipped pages in our bibles and cooked another homemade meal.

I love this life, I loved this year. I’d live it again, just to share space with so many people I love. But I’d spread it out over the course of three-four years :) 

With the perspective of these 17 days of 2024 (basically 6 months…), I am going to call 2023 the year of belonging and becoming. 

Belonging because it’s the year I started to tell myself “I belong here,” and the year I started to believe it. I’d say I walked the last decade questioning my belonging. Showing up in spaces feeling like I took up too much space, or not enough, or not the right kind of space. That’s exhausting. In the midst of all the places I inhabited in 2023, I found a glimmer of freedom, and I had the audacity to consider that it could be true that I belong here. That it could be grace. 

Becoming because I’m learning that growing up is more about growing young again. It’s a rebirth. Funny how redemptive it is, this side of heaven, to find innocent hope and joy and adventure again. I’m sifting through the real parts of me. Growing closer to 30 than I am 20, but feeling like I’m seven and seventeen at the same time. This is fun. Grateful. 

So, what’s going on in 2024?!?

We have some hopes and dreams. Less travel (allegedly). More money saved. We penciled a few specific mountains to summit, and long bike rides to go on. Mostly we’re planning on spending time outside, communing with those we love the most and love Himself, and tacos on the porch. There’s always tacos on the porch.  

Also, don’t be a bum. Come and visit us. 

And now, my long awaited ins and outs list for 2024. 

Ins 

• Airplane Mode (join the club, people) 

• Blue Tansy (specifically blue tansy Primally Pure deodorant) 

• Seasonal eating (life hack) 

• Breves (except for the fact that I’m supposed to be off dairy for 90 days…) 

• Habakkuk (just have a feeling about this one) 

• Roth IRAs (yay financial literacy) 

• Croatia (does anyone want to go with me? Serious question…) 

• Flip phones (Don’t tempt me with a good time) 

• The Liver (Bruh, that thing does almost 500 different things for us, we should do at least one thing for it) 

• Pastel colored houses (Don’t @ me) 

• Tongue scraping (thank me later) 

• Pre Check (treat yoself) 

• Dinner with strangers (and not talking about what we do for work) 

• Mortgages (fingers crossed) 

Outs

• HITT workouts (I’m talking to the ladies here) 

• Bras (#crunchy #lymphaticflow) 

• Charcuterie boards (I literally don’t make the rules) 

• Dogs (I’m sorry, they had a good run) 

• Roombas (they’re basically dogs) 

• Texting (I currently have 549 unread messages. Texting is out) 

• The color black (Stop pretending you’re enigmatic???) 

• Cancel culture (canceling that!) 

• Complaining about work (there are more interesting things to talk about) 

• Strava (...)

• Wearing shoes in the house (unless it’s my house, and they are slippers) 

• Floor length bridesmaids dresses (free the ankles) 

• Seed oils (bye bye) 

Please come at me in the comments (or share your ins and outs with joy!) 

Glad you’re here :-) 

First, let me set the scene: we’ll pretend it’s early summer. You’re sitting in a camp chair on my porch. We’re in Bozeman, Montana, because she’s perfect, and because that’s where I live. Everything smells like lilacs and a chorus of birds are serenading our conversation. You’re drinking a grapefruit spindrift with ice, I’m drinking a raspberry one without. You ask me, “What do you do?” 

I chuckle because there are better first questions. But I sigh because you must know. Right now? I do many things. Mostly, I write. I write for publications, clients, and myself. I also spend a lot of time applying for jobs, praying I find my place in this world. Hoping I develop rich friendships along the way. 

You ask if I went to college. 

I tell you I went to many. Freshman year I was a collegiate basketball player at a school in Iowa. Sophomore Year I moved to Columbia, Missouri, to plant a church and college ministry at Mizzou. After that year I dropped out of college for a semester to process that year. My junior and senior years were spent at Iowa State University, where I studied Journalism and Mass Communication and laughed through the degree. Wait, but there’s more. Just last year, I graduated with a master’s in innovation and management from Montana State University. It was a quarter-life crisis thing. I made some friends. 

You’re curious about my church planting experience, you ask if I’m still “religious?” 

Not knowing your context for that question, I’m cautious answering. I tell you that to some people, I’m terribly churchy. To others, I’m a heretic. Hoping you ask a follow-up question, I tell you that I’m a friend of God. I tell you that he and I have spent some serious time together. 

You don’t ask a follow-up question, instead, my response has you curious about politics. You ask about my thoughts on the upcoming election. 

I tell you I’m hopeful. I tell you that I really think that things can get better. I mean it. You know I mean it. Something about my eyes. 

You take a sip out of your drink. And ask me what I do for fun. 

I tell you I like to be outside. Especially on my bike with my husband, Alex. I spend a lot of joyful time in the kitchen. Cooking for friends is my favorite. And like most people, I love to read and make art. I smile when I say that I spend a lot of time writing. 

SHE HAS A HUSBAND AND SHE'S SO YOUNG you think. You ask me what he’s like. 

Finally an interesting question! I light up because I love talking about him. I tell you I met him eight days after he turned 20 but I wish I had known him my whole life. I once wrote a poem about him where I said, “Now that I have all your tomorrows, I’m jealous of your yesterdays” and I feel that every day. We were friends first, I smile, best friends. I’m funnier, but he’s smarter. We both read a lot. He has gentle eyes. He’s an airline pilot. 

A pilot? Intrigued, you ask me about turbulence. A classic follow-up. 

I tell you that he always describes it to me as air bubbles in the sky. He says that it’s similar to potholes in a gravel driveway. Nothing to be afraid of. 

It’s getting late, you’ve asked enough questions to quench your thirst for the mystery of me. You stand up, I follow your lead. Thank you for your time, you say. 

Time, I think. You don’t really know a person until you spend ample time with them. But you know a person best when you have a weird time with them. 

We walk to your car, I hug you goodbye. I always hug. You tell me I give a good hug. I say it’s because I’m strong and have broad shoulders. You get in your car and drive off. 

As I walk up my driveway, I think of our conversation. I assume you think I’m quite vanilla. It doesn’t bother me. How strange, however, that you came to get to know me and you only asked about the boring stuff: education, politics, religion, occupation, and companionship. 

Why do we care more about the resume than the eulogy? 

I wonder how long you would have stayed if you asked about my childhood, my quirks, my insecurities. Maybe that’s too forward for you at a first meeting, but that’s okay!  But we didn’t even talk about my ability to sprint barefoot on gravel, or my affinity for chocolate chip pancakes, or the fact that I can read whitewater like a book. You didn’t even discover that I was, and still am, a horse girl. We did not discuss the complexities I feel in my soul about friendship. I could have entertained you for hours with stories from my adventures, mostly who I shared them with. Maybe you could have asked me how to properly spice your soup, or how to make a sauce for a rice bowl. You would have had to take notes! 

If you would have lingered, I’m sure I would have learned about you, too. We could have talked about how brilliant we are - in our very specific and silly ways. You would have learned that I come across confident, bold, strong, and often described as “intimidating,” but really I’m soft and approachable and friendly. I might have even shed a tear!

But instead, you asked me, “What do you do?” 

Bummer, dude. 

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