I submitted an essay to this year’s BraVa! event… and then something weird happened.
BraVa! Is the bra-themed mini-memoir event in Troy, NY founded by @mroachsmith and supporting @ywcagcr by raising bras for women in need. Please consider making a donation to this amazing event.
Last year, I read my piece “There’s a Bra for That.” This year, I wrote a piece called “Home.” But I struggled with my decision to submit, because of the changes in my life this year, and the expense to go, and the fear of going by myself, and the complicated schedules of my family. But in the end, I clicked the submit button, and then… crickets. The notification period came and went and I didn’t receive an email. That’s weird, I thought. But it was a fleeting thought, and then I was on to my next project. Weeks later, I received an email from Marion with apologies that my submission, along with a few others, had been caught in a glitch and overlooked. She said it was wonderful, but that it wasn’t logistically possible to include it now for this year’s event. I felt a little sad, but really relieved! I replied to Marion with gratitude for this interaction with her, and relief that, although I really wanted to, I didn’t have to travel in this most turbulent year of my life. Here is what I wrote for BraVa! 2023:
It’s been four years since the morning that I woke up, crushed by anxiety and depression as I had been consistently for longer than I could remember, pulled myself out of bed, threw on a yoga bra and pants, and drove to the studio. In this particular yoga class, on a Wednesday morning, I happened to be the only student.
So, when the instructor asked, “How are you doing?” I blurted out, “I’m waiting for a space to become available at the domestic violence shelter for myself and my kids. It should be within a week.”
Stunned, my yoga instructor said, “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t leave home today?”
My heart started beating faster, but in answer, I simply burst into tears, shaking my head. And she offered up her home to us.
It was July, and so my kids were making the most of their summer vacation by sleeping in. I drove home, and spent a few minutes standing in my kitchen, trying to take a few deep breaths and calm my fearful heart, looking out at the trees in the park bordering my house. Oak. Crabapple. Spruce. Maple. The leaves swayed in a gentle breeze and the park was peaceful. But there was an empty space where my favorite tree, a 40 year old willow, used to stand. It had been chopped down recently in an HOA debacle. I’d spent so much time at that door, looking out to my kids playing or climbing trees. Although there were so many painful memories here, I deeply loved this place, this home, this neighborhood, the sounds of giggles wafting across the park. I let the memory swirl in my mind and took another breath. I closed my eyes.
“I am leaving here,” I thought.
Just like the willow tree, soon there would be an empty space left where I used to stand.
I gathered as much courage as I could, turned and marched up the stairs, my legs feeling heavy and stiff. It was almost as if I’d actually done a strenuous yoga class, but in reality, all I’d done was sit on my mat and cry.
I went into my kids rooms, woke them up, and told them that it was time to leave. “You have 45 minutes to pack.” I said.
“Finally!” said my teenage daughter.
My brain was foggy as I packed my own things, while my children repeatedly burst into my room with questions:
Can I bring my remote control car?
Can I bring my record player?
Can I bring all of my books?
Can I bring my airplane?
“Yes,” I said, “as long as it all fits in our car. Bring whatever will make you happy!”
We’d recently returned from a road trip to Ohio. It’s forty hours of driving round trip and a tradition for my two children and I; and some of the greatest bonding times we’ve had. We were living out of suitcases and sleeping in different beds nearly every night for weeks. I’d barely unpacked, so I threw everything back into the suitcase now, and away we went. First to the yoga instructors’ home for several nights and then to the domestic violence shelter for six weeks. Towards the end of that time, friends conspired to help us rent a house, furnish it, and get us moved in. There was more generosity in our little town, our circles of friends, than I could have ever imagined. I kept it all a secret from the children, until everything was done. I picked them up from school that day and drove to our new home. I parked on the street in front of the house and they looked around, saying, “Where are we?”
“Home!” I said.
We stepped inside and they were astounded that we already had a couch, the remote control car, the record player, the books, and the airplane. We had makeshift beds made out of camping pads. We ate dinner together picnic style on a plastic table cloth spread on the floor of the kitchen. We unpacked our suitcases into closets, and I realized it was the first time I’d really unpacked in over two months. That time had been such a blur of courts and attorneys and police and advocates that I barely knew what I had. But as I stood in my new walk-in closet, I picked up each item and really looked at it: yoga bra, yoga pants, yoga bra, yoga pants, yoga bra. In the rush, I had packed almost nothing else. I took it as a sign from the universe that I had to continue those yoga classes that had literally saved my life. They saved me by keeping me grounded, by giving me a community, by getting me out of my depression so many mornings, and by leading me out of my abusive marriage.
