endless february
time travel is impossible, yet some part of me longs to try
I claw my way through the earth. I claw my way through this life. I cannot claw my way back in time.
If you were to ever catch me walking down the street—the volume of my music acceptable to my ears, my coat hugging my shoulders, my New Yorker tote hugging my coat hugging my shoulders—there is a fair chance that I am having a conversation with myself in my mind. As I write this, I sincerely hope there are others out there like me. I like to think I am sufficiently self-entertaining; there is forever a slew of thoughts firing inside of me, begging to be given attention, tiny hands bopping in the air waiting to be called on.
Recently, on one of these walks, a thought I called on went like this: If there were a day you could return to over and over again, which day would it be?
The answer came immediately like a dog’s salivation to a Pavlovian bell: 25 February 2023.
The speed with which this date raced to the forefront of my mind should have warranted a stop in my tracks, but I refuse to put my self-entertainment above public courtesy and become one of those people who grind to a halt on the pavement. And so I let my legs continue their rhythm and began dissecting the motivation behind this answer.
On a surface level, it was indisputably one of the happiest days of my life, marking a flagship event I had spearheaded that unfolded successfully (it goes without saying that the credit goes to my wider council). We seemed to have been blessed by some kind of anti-Murphy’s Law, where everything that could have gone right went right. I was surrounded by people who spent months bringing this project to life with me, as well as friends who showed up with their support, applause, and flowers. It was one of those moments where you look out into a crowd, recognize faces, and realize that your heart wasn’t built to carry this much gratitude and happiness, and that you don’t know where to put those emotions, so you shove some in the tiny pockets of your women’s pants and carry the rest in your arms until your spine begins curving.
But really, my longing to return to this date has less to do with what happened on the day itself and more with everything that ensued after 25 February 2023 was crossed off the calendar.
Up until that date, I had lived an ordinary life. Sure, I enjoy some privileges that come with my background and had my fair share of drama, but it was nothing to write home about—hence ‘ordinary’. My life was predictable and overall stable thanks to what I deem its transactional nature: If I studied hard, I got the grades; if I prepared for an interview, I got the position; if I ran for student council, I was inevitably inducted; if I planned for something, I would pull it off. I have always been able to see clearly the kind of life I would be living into the future, and rarely was I wrong in my forecasting. The scales were always balanced, which was absolutely pleasing to a Libra like me, and this balance persisted until 25 February 2023.
Like I said, on that day, our hard work had paid off, and everyone I loved was there to love me back in their own way. But that was the last day those two statements proved to be conceptually true. Very soon after the excitement around the flagship had dissipated and my life had resumed a monotonous rhythm, things began to crumble. Over what has now been exactly three years, I have been rolling downhill, stubbing parts of me against hard lessons, uncertain when the descent will plateau. Success no longer came guaranteed with hard work. I witnessed luck strategically intervene for others and just as strategically skip over me. I stood on the thin end of unreciprocated friendships and relationships. I scooped out parts of myself as an offering only to have my prayers unanswered.
Very quickly, I was casting my efforts into the ether, echoing into a cavernous abyss. What stung the most was the realization that some people in my life needed an active reason to love me. To stay in love with me. That being myself wasn’t reason enough. Through some eyes, there is a utility scale floating above my head. Through all this time, I evolved to please, thinking that my evolution would yield the transactional return of their love.
I think that in the time between 25 February 2023 and today, I have needed to evolve and adapt to varying but simultaneous circumstances, meaning I can never fully be enough for one person or one role. Not as a writer, not as a sister, not as a daughter, not as a friend, not as a lover. It took three whole years for me to come to the realization that I needed to learn how to leave, how to let go, how to remove myself from the situation if I can’t change the situation. It took three whole years for me to conclude that someone’s perception of me being inadequate is sometimes more a reflection of them than of me. It took me three years to believe that the most important thing is to be enough for myself.
And sure, maybe it took me three years to come to terms with the way life has changed, with the way life will be from here on out—just a cosmos of uncertainty and inconsistencies. But the bitterness of the leaving, be it enacted by others or myself, never fades. I still can’t entertain the idea that hard work is mangled by chance before it reaches the success line. I refuse to wrap my head around the fact that people who once loved you unconditionally can grow to demand evidence before they trust you.
The best part about 25 February 2023 is that there was still some part of me that was innocent, that believed in transactions and karma and balance. I’ll even call that version of myself naïve, goddamn it! Life was easier then! If only I could claw my way back, I would happily give up my fingernails in the process. I’d jump through all things quantum just to go back to that February.
