Birthmarks and Brazen Vulnerability: Reclaiming the Parts of Me I Once Hated

Birthmarks, once concealed, now free to live on face and foot. My mother tried to tell me they were beauty marks—small declarations of my uniqueness. Only took thirty-odd years to see them as such.

Carefree, dark waves with streaks of sunlight, once tamed, now left to their own devices.

An over-identification with feelings and a tendency toward ‘cringe’ vulnerability and volatility, now seen through softer eyes as authenticity, honesty, and emotional courage.

Debilitating perfectionism, now in remission; instead, a newly carved internal space for both excellence and failure, with recognition that I’m giving my best from one moment to the next.

Crippling indecisiveness, now seen as openness to new experiences, and the fluidity of making choices according to self-trust and intuition, not just fear.

Shame and guilt—now recognized as an internal working alarm system, reminding me of my humanity, of my concern for my impact on others, and my desire not to hurt them.

I’m still refining the rest of it. Probably a lifelong process, eh? The point is, everything, even the so-called ugly stuff, serves a purpose.

Full Circle: The Years Passed Like Scenes of a Show — The Professor Said to Write What You Know

I visited my alma mater today, baby in tow. Since I was in the area meeting a friend, I decided it was finally time to part with some of my old textbooks during the college’s book buyback week. I’ve been trying to be more intentional about what I hold onto—shedding what no longer serves me to make space for what does.

It felt strange being back in a place so heavy with visceral memories. Vivid vignettes of meaningful conversations with classmates and professors in the very concourse where I now held my daughter flashed before me. Even the parking garage held resonance. As it turns out, imprints of a different chapter of my life are not so easily dulled. I attended college here on and off since 2011, graduating from my diploma program in 2013. But it was the second round of full-time studies that almost broke me. The last stretch of my undergrad was brutal. In my final semester, anxiety pressed down so hard it made me nauseous just stepping onto campus. I’d slip into windowless rooms to study, avoiding the bright chatter of the halls and the sidelong smiles from flirty 20-year-old boys who had no idea I was just trying to hold myself together as I was mentally breaking. More than once, I ended up dry heaving in the campus bathroom before class, face hot with tears, wondering how I’d make it through another day. I finally graduated in the spring of 2023 and never looked back, until today.

As I walked those familiar halls with my daughter on my hip, I realized something I hadn’t before: every sleepless night, every panicked exam, every haphazardly written paper, every moment I thought I wouldn’t make it through… all of it led to her—this brilliant beacon of light and goodness who connects me to my purpose. Somehow, being there again with her turned a place that once felt heavy into one that felt whole.

And when I left, I noticed it. I was lighter walking out than I’d been walking in.

Returning to such a formative environment with my daughter enabled me to truly see how one of the most difficult and intense times of my life connected to this moment—like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

I couldn’t see it back then, but every bit of it was for her.

And for me, too.

For our becoming.

Uh-Oh Sparks

My friends,

divorced or drifting,

swipe for company.

If it were me,

I could never—

I’d probably

just die alone.

I don’t believe

in soulmates

that arrive

by algorithm,

matching hobbies

or a list of curated books

on a profile.

(How pretentious.)

I believe in accidents—

the uh-oh spark

of recognition

in a public place,

two beings

colliding

like stars

across the

galaxy.

Maybe in the produce section,

my hand closing around

the firm neck

of a zucchini

as I admire it

a little too seriously,

when he looks up

from the tomatoes

and says,

“I wish my last date

looked at me like that,”

and I’d laugh

and we’d talk

just long enough

to be sure he doesn’t

work in finance,

on a pipeline,

or part-time

at a dispensary.

On our first date

I'd get nervous

not eat

a single bite,

probably drink

a little too much,

slip a clumsy hand

in the back of his jeans

as we walk

to the car—

because I always

make the first move.

He doesn't mind.

In the evenings,

we’d drink dark beer

and talk about

class consciousness,

workers’ rights,

and the rot

of corporate greed—

like we’d been

touching souls

for centuries.

Later, he’d chase me

down the hall

to the bedroom

tackling me

on unkempt sheets

like we’re

always

going to be young.

Our love

wouldn’t be mediated

through a screen,

and there’s no

bullshit or tiptoeing around

obscured meanings—

just truth

of the messiest kind.

We’d prep

dinner together

and bitch

about our days—

how the boss

does nothing

and takes all the credit—

so bourgeoisie.

We roll our eyes at

dogma,

and the

annoying shit

gym rats say

and he doesn't

make me watch

sports

and I love

that we hate

the same things.

Everything

and everyone else

seems so mundane

compared to a love

that arrived

like a summer storm—

untameable,

without warning,

no regard for

pre-scheduled

calendars,

or best laid plans.

That's the way it is

with the one

I'm married to now.

Because sometimes,

the best things

happen

when you

least expect them.