light & gather

When I was a teenager, I used to spend Valentine’s Day alone.
It wasn’t my favorite holiday, but it was a holiday I always looked forward to.

I watched all my favorite movies, made a pizza, and had a chocolate dessert. I’d gather myself in the living room, assembling my feast on the floor. I’d turn off all the lights except for one or two lamps (maybe some string lights if I could find them). I don’t remember making such a big deal out of it in terms of material things. Looking back on it, the whole setup was a little simple, but I remember feeling so fulfilled with what little I had. There was no one to care for or be cared for, and I didn’t mind, actually, I liked it.

Now, looking back, I remember how I romanticized the moments I spent by myself. After moving out for college, I was always alone. At the time, it felt like I was the only one in the world. I had wrapped myself in my own little cocoon and drew tracings on the wall of my chrysalis home. I dedicated myself to myself and built a life just for me. It was a larger version of the nights I spent on Valentine’s Day back in high school, without a witness, without someone to tend to.

I used to work at the library, so I would rent books on tape. I refused to have a TV in my room. I would light all the candles I had and lie in bed listening to audiobooks. If it rained, I’d open a window.

Trips to the grocery store became a sacred part of cooking. Going to the gym was a practice in divine movement. Art was to be done only after meditation, long silences, or whenever inspiration struck. These became the fabric of my life routines.

I remember when I noticed a shift in how I spent my time. My husband, who was my friend at the time, came to visit me at my college apartment. It was Valentine’s Day. I made him steak and fries while we listened to an audiobook I had to read for class. The air was so calm it was like he wasn’t there at all, peaceful, without a ripple to ruin the moment. I had a witness. That’s when I knew my time alone would end soon. And it’s crazy to think that as soon as I wasn’t alone, all of those things went away. I had nothing sacred that belonged to just me. I didn’t feel like the embodiment of myself, but of two people, who I had to make space for. It was love, but it was different—not like what I’m used to when I am alone.

I used to talk to my husband about it, and he’d always say, well, you can still do those things. And to his point, he was right—I could still do all of those things. The only difference is that I wouldn’t be alone. And while I love my family, it is totally different to love and devote yourself to others than it is to love and devote yourself to yourself.

I would like to get back to that version of me. I used to feel like light followed me wherever I went, iridescent and warm. But they say once you leave, you can never go back, and I don’t know what to do about that. I’d like to say that the light is on my son, but to be honest, I think he has his own thing going on. I know you can pass things on to your kids, but if something was meant for you, shouldn’t it be just yours? Love and devotion, without witness, what does that look like now?