The Difference Between Living and Being Alive

I have not died during this past year, but it turns out I have not been living either.

That is what my recent trip revealed to me. That there is a difference between living and barely being alive.

I had forgotten, like so many others I presume, what it feels like to be around people. I had misplaced my ability to relax. For the first half of our trip I felt on edge, not knowing if my body was allowed to simply just sit.

When we boarded the plane, I visualized it nose-diving from the sky. It was such vivid imagery that I phoned my sister to make sure she knew where the paperwork was for my kids should anything happen to us.

These are the ripple effects I didn’t even know were occurring within me from last March until now. This is the impact of having underlying anxiety, a worldwide pandemic, and being exposed to daily media which is flooded with fear and death. After all, the one plane that crashes makes the news, not the 100,000 daily that don’t.

I knew when I returned home, I would undoubtedly feel more burdened again—that’s just the dance of fantasy versus nonfiction. But I was able to pack in my suitcase a tiny bit of peace, solely because I was able to experience a silver of life beyond my bubble. The smiles of strangers. The food, so flavorful and rich. A knowing that there’s still a grand, big world out there full of goodness.

And slowly, soon, we’ll get to see it again.

To More Love,

Stephanie

 

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