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Couldn’t be me

I recently came across a fantastic Reel, that delivered its message so well I actually shared it to my Stories.

The creator was a young woman, I’m honestly not even sure what her background is, I want to say she’s a therapist, but I have no idea. Anyway, in the Reel she was playing two characters and basically identifying and dissecting what many of us are feeling right now. 

The whole thing felt kind of like nesting dolls. And when she got to the smallest doll, the feeling she indentified was grief.

In the moment, watching the video, I loved it, but I think a small part of me didn’t resonate with the grief piece. I accepted it, but didn’t necessarily resonate with it. 

Couldn’t be me. 

Now, just a few days later, I believe it to be spot on. 

It is absolutely me.

This past week I started listening to Braiding Sweetgrass, and within the first few minutes I felt an intense flood of sadness. 

It was exactly as the woman had described in the Reel.

Grief. 

Grief about what could be, but what isn’t. Grief about what’s been lost and how it’s been lost. Grief about the meanness in the deliberate actions being taken to make other people’s lives worse. 

Couldn’t be me. 

Oh, no, it is actually exactly me. 

I think one of the first times that I felt this “couldn’t be me” feeling was over the they/them labeling conversation. This was many many years ago, and perhaps I say that so as to subconsciously let myself off the hook by chalking it up to youth and immaturity, but I definitely felt some kind of way about the they/them discussion and people‘s insistence on using those pronouns.

Now, my Instagram bio says they.

Couldn’t be me.

Oh, no, it is actually exactly me. 

Writing this blog post as a reminder to myself that if the initial response is, “Couldn’t be me”, it’s very likely that it is exactly me.

Maestro out.