I Remember Her

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I almost said out loud.

A lot worse words were crossing through my mind, but this was a new environment, and in case I lost control of my mouth, I wanted to watch what came out. Today was my first day at an event alone in a long time. I had learnt to go out alone, but then I moved to a place where friends were in plenty, and I got lost in the turning wheels.

Today, I was going to be alone, for an entire event, with people I didn’t know well, all because I had made the foolish choice to be more outgoing. What was that about? Why did I need to be outgoing in the middle of a pandemic? People sucked; why was I so inclined to be better at associating with them?

At this moment, I cursed my resolution. If I had it my way, right now, I would be in the house, cuddled up with a warm blanket, a glass of wine, and a good movie, but here I was, with a chair in my hand, wondering why I left the house in the first place.

“Let’s go to that table,” I had whispered to one of the two people I knew well enough to talk to a few minutes before.

She had looked at me, then at the full table, we were on, and nodded. Together, we stood, took our chairs, and as I prepared to take the first step, a voice at the back interrupted.

“Where are you going?” She asked my friend, and that’s how I ended up alone, on a lawn with heels too high for this moment and a chair in my hands.

There were two options; I could set my chair down as my friend had done and continue talking to her, or I could keep walking to the new table. This was a dilemma. On the one hand, I would have to sit in the awkwardness of changing my mind because someone else did, while on the other, I would have to walk alone and somehow integrate with the new table, alone.

“What’s the worst that could happen if I walked to the new table?” I asked myself, genuinely hoping that my anxiety would show up and discourage me from moving.

Nothing.

I took the first step, playing out the various scenarios of what could happen at the new table. First, there was a celebrity on it; that celebrity was the MC; anyone paying attention to the happenings in the event was looking at the MC; I was lost.

“One step at a time, take a breath with each, you’ll get there and sit down, you will not bother anyone, you will pay attention to the band on stage and mind your business. If you don’t talk to them, they will not talk to you. They might assume you are awkward, but that’s better than being intrusive, right? Right?”

These words ran on repeat in my head as I tried to have a quick pep-talk for the moment that was ahead. The social anxiety I experience, hid deep in my skin, pricking at my insides; it was uncomfortable and scary, but not enough to stop me from walking.

I slowly placed my chair on the furthest left and sat down. So good so far, I thought.

“Would you like to join us?” someone asked.

I had already come this far; a little further couldn’t hurt.

“What are you drinking?” another one inquired.

I looked down at the table and smiled. They must have thought me a prude, sipping on my chocolate milkshake as they took their beers. Five minutes later, my shake was on the side, two bottles of beer in front of me; what was I so afraid of?

“Do you want to dance?” one asked.

Dance? Where? We were in the middle of a garden, in broad daylight. The last time I checked, the kind of dancing I did was in darkness, in a club with lousy lighting, or within the walls of my house. He wanted me to take his hand, under the gaze of all those people, and dance?

I shook my head; he was kind enough to walk away, but then came his friend. Relentless and a tad bit more charming. So, I got up, with him holding my hand, and we danced on the lawn, and we laughed, them from happiness and joy, me as a mask for the anxiety that was burning my skin, begging to be freed. I was having too much fun to let her out.

You give yourself a chance to do things that scare you, and the universe sends you something to support your ambition. Today, she sent a slight drizzle that reminded me how beautiful it was to be alive, then, in her beauty, she held me, whispering some gentle congratulations for my courage to come to this place that had so much joy for me.

I stand in this bar, speaking the most truth I ever have to a bunch of strangers, and they are listening. I am laughing because I am happy; I am in socks, the heels long abandoned, and my feet are light as they walk through the polished floors of this hotel.

Today, after dancing, I started to take bigger and more confident strides across that lawn. I smiled when I saw a joyful face, and when I recognized how big the day was for me, I took those two people from that new table and invited them to join me in worship. They removed their shoes, as I asked, and they listened, we lay on the ground, and I felt validated.

This moment of thanksgiving led me here, at the bar with six people, five of whom I have never met and one I haven’t spoken more than ten words to, at a go, before today. As the alcohol keeps pouring, my gratitude rises. It’s how I remember this, somewhere in the past standing in the middle of a crowd, speaking my truth, only then, that truth was a childish poem in my English textbook.

I remember a small and talkative girl. I remember her walking into a school compound visiting her older sister, and whoever saw her first knew who she was because of how easily words flowed out of her. It was how they smiled when they saw her, knowing they have some entertainment for the day. I remember her confident walk into places that she had no business walking into, looking for her sister, relentless and never caving.

That girl I remember, stands in this bar, with awe in her eyes as she looks at each face looking at her. They are asking questions; they are laughing; they are paying attention. It’s been a minute since she came out, and her truths are heavier now than they were then. As I stand in this bar today, having gone against every anxious thought that demanded I stay in the house cowering from all the danger and disappointment outside, I remember her.