It’s hard to talk about being the happiest person I know without sounding like an asshole. Even re-reading that sentence. I mean, I get it. Who’s this jerk? I chose to write exactly what I just wrote, and even I don’t know what to think of me. But it’s true. I am the most consistently happy person I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know, and these days I’m exploring what it’s like to not feel guilty about that. Because it took a boatload of work and a long fucking time to get here. 

It’s not that unfortunate and shitty things don’t happen to me, or that people haven’t done me dirty. It’s not that I can’t see the dark spots in a dimming world or that I haven’t walked through one or 20 myself, tripping over demons, groping for the exit. My particular brand of happiness is a choice. When the darkness inevitably comes, I pay my respects, sit with it for as long as I need to acknowledge it. And then I find the light. If I can’t find the light, I always find the humor. 

It’s rare I let the same version of darkness visit again, because while I’m sitting face-to-face, darkness to darkness, feeling how it feels to feel it, I’m scribbling field notes, building my arsenal of defenses for the next time. 

That’s not quite right. 

I’m working undercover, perfecting the art of embracing it. So when it comes again, it’s like an old friend, one who doesn’t need to visit for very long to prove a point. The more I learn about the darkness, the brighter I become. 

I’m not saying everyone should be like this or is even capable of being like this. We all come equipped with a unique set of tools in our boxes, our own little puzzle. But I am saying it should be okay for me to be like this. To always look for the good. To consider less heavy perspectives. To focus on the positive. To change the narrative, surround myself with daisies, climb a sturdy tree the wind can’t huff and puff. To believe in best intentions, because why not? I’ve seen the alternative. It’s not for me. I choose not to hold onto what weighs me down.

Many, many, MANY moons ago (so many I’m not sure if we’re talking years or decades) I was given a gift whilst stumbling blindly around one of those aforementioned dark spots. Not wallowing per se, but certainly not equipped with a pen to scribble down any notes, nor working under any kind of cover for a bigger purpose. I was just…sad. Lonely. Alone. Confidence popped, heart deflated, anxiety exploded.

Deep in the darkness, but like also, randomly in the ladies bathroom at State Street Brats (my college bar of employment and this was waaaay after graduation, which confirms at least one decade ago) with my friend Ann Marie. She’s of those people with whom you check the watch you don’t wear and its been two hours, but you swear it’s been no more than 15 minutes, the conversation is just so-what-you-need-right-now you get lost in time. We had found ourselves in several of these conversations throughout the years, due to our general life connections. Never unwelcome, always an insightful pleasure. 

She was in her own version of the darkness, so we did what we could to be a mutual source of light, exchanging head torches and table lamps, matchboxes and flashlights (the rumors are true y’all, women are the best). Walking home, we parted ways and as our hug came undone she grabbed my shoulders.

TOSHA. Do you have a mirror? (I did. Who doesn’t have a mirror? Did I?) You are never alone. Go home, blast your music, get in front of a mirror, and dance. You can be whoever you want to be. You get to be your only judge.**

I can’t remember if I ever danced with myself in the mirror before that, but I’ve let go of so, SO much, every single time after. 

And at some point (a decade+ later, turns out), I eventually learned how to love what I saw. A delicate process, snaillike in progress. I’d find one thing I didn’t totally hate, praise myself for not being completely horrible. Time would pass, and with it, acceptance (maybe even gratitude?) of tiny pieces of myself. Those would quietly bleed into adjacent not-so-awful things to begin to appreciate, view through a new lens, items ranging from the physical to the mental, reactions to comebacks, attitudes and outlooks, obstacles or adventures, creativity? style? both can be true, choices/decisions, things out of my control, things within my power.

And for all things I didn’t love about myself, didn’t want to be, or had outgrown? I tried on hundreds of concepts until I said yes to the dress. And then I layered on the accoutrements. Went heavy. 

We are meant to be adorned. 

So that’s where I found myself a few days ago, moving through life’s latest kinks, when I saw her. Dancing in the mirror to Bellevue Bridge Club, long wild hair streaked with gray, crinkles and wrinkles, nothing on her face but the marks of time, surrounded by art and adventure and music and life and plants and dogs and color, a growing masterpiece crawling up her arm, a depiction older than time, light versus dark, the beautiful dead, the ugliness of life, evil and good. She vs She.

I caught her eye. A little sadness, slightly broken, ego like a tattered flag, heart patched up real good. Still she smiled. Andrew Bird flew into my ear:

And I will hold you hostage
Make you part of my conspiracy

I smiled back. Squinted. She opened her mouth. “You are who I wanted to be when I grew up,” I read her lips as the words escaped my mouth, our eyes widened, a shock for both of us, it would appear.

You will be witness to carnage
You know there’s no You without Me

Andrew Bird sang to my ears. I sang to my face. The author and the audience. The subject and the reader. The dancer and the crowd. The judge, the jury, witness and defendant.

I’m not crying, she’s crying.

❤

**(Or something to that effect. It was a long time ago, and those are the words I carry with me. Also, today finds me relatively heavy on mirrors in every room. So I can dance throughout the house💃🏻.)