In a woman-majority household, you are bound to find these as constants. Opinions, extremities of the Goddess Moods, irrational fears, and hair fall despite round-the-clock sweeping. Allow me to narrate one such fear. I used to be afraid of heavy rains because what followed the pretty lightning was a fearful sound. The wrath of the guardian of the skies, perhaps? The sound of something heavy breaking, something being destroyed, just made me feel all world-endy. To accommodate my fear (to be read as: let every adult around me sleep in peace), my Grandma would convince everyone in the house to sleep in the hall, and somehow that calmed me.
The realization of growing up is accepting that such sounds of thunder exist inside our heads, too—mine, at least. There is a noise constantly questioning every step or criticizing every move. It almost feels like on most days, the noise is what drives me, makes me move, or even makes me feel alive. All this sounds poetic and productive, but the ability to question and always try to make something of those worst-case scenarios inherently romanticizes anxieties and overthinking. Now I won't go appreciating or whining about our society's take on such topics, but I often find myself interested in my own practice of keeping my sanity.
From what I have gotten so far, living is juggling between staying stuck, being afraid of the sounds, sleeping despite it, and accepting it as part of a cycle. When it starts to seep into the good things, echoing non-stop in an effort to destroy everything you love, that's when you go to your version of Grandma. That's when you know you're not alone!
