There’s a sense of “opening”.
There is fear of committing to this life. A sense of scale that is as intimidating as it is false.
There is no forever commitment, there is only right now.
It’s been made clear that the pursuit of a mommy job to take care of me and keep me safe is not the next step.
So instead, I open, a little. I take on projects. I begin. I propose. I go for coffee. I reconnect with those similarly afloat, looking around, wondering what’s next.
This is next. It scares and excites me. It makes me want to turn around and look for mommy. There is no mommy. There is only this. We make our own mommy.
And so, I open. I peek my head outside and look around. I see others, blinking in the blinding sunlight, unsure where to look, they too waiting for their eyes to adjust.
And so, I open. And connections appear, slowly. Some give a friendly wave. Some stare from their mommy arms, envious, confused, reluctant to touch. Some come over and say hello and how are you and what do you love and let’s share, the landscape is so much less daunting when we venture out together for a time.
And so, I open, mommy’s embrace ever hovering, like a fuzzy carrot on a gnarled stick. But we make our own mommy, that one isn’t my real mommy, doesn’t really love me, doesn’t love what I can do.
And so, I open, a little.
And step forward.