Bookends

I've been thinking a LOT lately about my life's firsts and lasts—at least, the ones I know about so far.

If I dissect my memories and stack them by topic* and time, I can see these very clear thematic bookends. Between them are entire periods of my life where I changed dramatically.

*By topics, I mean things like:

• First first kiss / Last first kiss
• First time hearing a new favorite song / Last time I could hear it without crying sad tears
• First time meeting my first child, who was a beautiful surprise / First time meeting my last child, who I'd planned for and struggled to conceive and carry

Over the last few months, I've been mentally organizing these little bookshelves. It feels like doing an intense spring cleaning, only internally.

I didn't even realize I was doing this work on purpose until I was already halfway through it. Reflecting on that, I think I've been preparing myself mentally for the intense amount of change I've been going through this year.

And it probably isn't a coincidence that all of this mental organizing has been happening at the same time I've been organizing and decluttering my house (and the physical spaces around me, like my car and office).

I've realized that nearly every physical item around me carries some kind of emotional weight.

Some things have been so emotionally heavy to look at while cleaning that I've had to let them go. Literally, physically gut-punching to look at these things and touch them. It's sad to hold something that once brought me so much joy, only to realize that now I associate it with a relationship that went bad, or a job opportunity that fizzled out.

So, I've let those things go. But I can't toss my bad memories in the same way. For better or for worse.

But I'm tired of carrying them around with the same disorganized weight they've held over me for so long. So, I've been journaling. A LOT.

I've been breaking down the things that feel heaviest to my heart, connecting them to other experiences in my life, and trying to file them away more intentionally in the library of my mind, where they are far less likely to show up unexpectedly and ruin my day.

As I sort through these memories, I assign them to sections—something like First Marriage. Musicians that I've Met. Dogs I've Loved.

Usually, those sections have their own firsts and lasts. Their own bookends.

When I feel like I've filled a section of my mental library, I look at it the way that someone might look through an old photo album; I acknowledge what happened, understand it's purpose in my journey, close it, and put it back on the shelf.

Then I make a conscious decision not to revisit it unless I absolutely have to.

It's been a long journey, and I'm nowhere near finished.

But the biggest fires in my mind are finally being put out with some urgency. And the constant background noise created by 46 years of unprocessed experiences is slowly getting quieter.

This is the journey.

My journey.

I've stopped comparing myself to other people or judging how long it took me to get here. I've also finally been able to slow myself down enough to focus on one thing at a time—for the first sustained period I can remember. Maybe ever.

All of this housekeeping and mind-clearing has made me realize how much of the individual human experience is shaped by our own firsts and lasts.

Talking about them with friends has given me much more perspective on their lives, too.

Recently, I've happily remembered a first or a last involving someone close to me, only to discover that they remember the same moment very differently. These conversations have been met with judgment, and they've opened my eyes to how much we build our personal baseline for morality, fairness, love, loyalty, success, and loss around our own experiences.

Our own bookends.

What feels acceptable to one person might feel unforgivable to another because of everything that happened between their unique first and last.

And I think the same thing is true of injustice. How unfair something feels, how much it hurts, can depend on the bookends surrounding it. I have come to accept that people I love may feel actual anger towards me for having perceived better firsts or lasts than they experienced in their own lives.

Maybe that's part of why understanding another person can be so difficult. We aren't just reacting to what is happening now.

We're reacting to an entire library.