5 - You Can Do Hard Things

Every day, I do hard things.

Sometimes they hurt. Terribly. Other times, they feel like nothing more than a little pinch. Rarely do they leave a bruise or blood, although a few times they have. But that’s why there are bandaids and disinfectants in the world, to clean and wash away the past. But you’ll never forget. At least, I never have.

Most of the time, if it’s more than a hard thing, a tough, rough thing, it leaves a bad memory. A sour taste in your mouth that reminds you of its presence, no matter how much mouthwash you swish, and swish, and swish. It remains.

Some hard things lead to good pain, the kind that melts your legs into the mattress at the end of a long day. The kind that has you craving to work through the tears tomorrow and the next day and the next. I like those hard things the most. I like the temporary pain. It reminds me I’m human but doesn’t leave me limping for weeks.

I did a hard thing when I was a little girl. It was February, I was ten, and it was cold. I walked towards my mom’s car for afterschool pickup and jumped inside. She handed me a book titled The Rainbow Bridge and told me that our dog, Murphy, went to heaven that morning. I closed the door, shut out the cold, took the book in my chilled hands, and pinched myself. Not to wake up from a bad dream, but rather so I wouldn’t cry. That was a hard thing. I made it all the way home without any tears. I wouldn’t say it made me a better person. Some hard things are meant to break us down so we can build ourselves back up.

I did a hard thing last year. I sobbed in my mom’s lap at 20 years old the day she had to fly back to New York. It was the start of my fall semester in London and the longest time I would ever be away from home. Tears poured for 2 hours, I became nauseous, I ate a croissant, and then I cried some more. She stroked my hair and cried with me. She told me that it would be okay. And it was. That was one of the hardest things I’ve done. Now I cry in front of her, with her, beside her, all the time. Probably too much, if I’m being honest, but it’s gotten easier, and I like having her there. I don’t want to hide the hurt from her anymore. We’re closer now.

I did a hard thing this weekend. I watched one of my best friends talk to the man I thought was the love of my life. I watched him buy her a round of overpriced drinks at the bar until she swayed in his arms, smiling in a blissful haze of vodka crans.

I watched as he walked her down the stairs and into the crowded streets of Nashville. Music City. Perhaps the city of love for them tonight. I didn’t want to think about that. But he’s a good guy, I wasn’t worried about that. I watched as they got smaller and disappeared. I texted her to ask where she went. We agreed not to split up. She told me he brought her to a speakeasy, and they were having a great time. Later that night, she told me she wouldn’t return to our apartment and would meet us in the morning.

I was up early, making coffee and neatly folding clothes into my suitcase when she walked in. She was still smiling and radiant despite the “crazy bad” hangover she kept reminding us she had. My head is throbbing. In the car, my other friend glanced at me through the rearview mirror. She knew this was hard. But I can do hard things. I nodded and smiled to indicate I was okay. Or that I was going to be okay, even if it killed me.

She told us all about her night, her man, who she gave a stupid nickname to. I smiled and even laughed at her story. I pinched myself in the back seat, but it didn’t work. It didn’t wake me from this bad dream or place the pain somewhere else to distract the thoughts that were taking over my mind. Of course he chose her. Look at yourself. Why would he want you? You never stood a chance. You never will. I pulled my eyes closed, slid a hoodie over my face, and hoped sleep would take me away.

I can do hard things. I’m doing them right now. I’m balancing my love for a friend with my hatred for what she did, for the man she stole from me, even though he was never mine to begin with.

I can do hard things. I can face the fact that Nashville isn’t my kind of city and that low-rise jeans are not my kind of cut. I can go out and have a good time but also hate the way my arms look in my top while I’m dancing. I can feel the pain of the weekend and still continue to go on, to talk to the man I thought was mine. I can feel the bad but keep going. That’s the hardest thing - not to stop. To go through. Not over, not around.

Today he asked me to write a song with him but he doesn’t know I’ve already written several about him. He said he missed doing that: writing. He said it’s “our thing.”

I wish I could tell him that his presence draws in dreamers with hearts too big and tops too small. I wish he knew that I used to fall asleep with my hand gently grazing my face, my fingers trailing up and down my skin. Up, down. I would pretend my hand belonged to someone else, and that false comfort kept me going for a while. Until it didn’t. I wish he understood the nothingness I felt when I saw his hand on her waist. I wish I could tell him that now, when I look at him, I feel nothing and that all of the love I had is a distant memory. I wish I could rant to him about all of these hard things and how I lived through the night I learned he never wanted me.

But I don’t say any of that. I text, “Sorry, homework.”

I can do hard things. I do them every day.