There’s a poem by Mary Oliver that seems to be ever pervading my mind in a continual stream of consciousness, especially the first stanza.

The gravitas and urgency that these few lines transmit never ceases to remind me how precious life is, how both beautiful and soul crushingly painful different moments can be. Something in me awakens like a sudden switching on and my psyche changes ever so slightly. 

Sometimes, my mind flashes up moments from my life like scenes from a movie. Conveniently, there’s even some dramatic instrumental sonic that serves to accompany the reel like some Jane Eyre soundtrack on loop. 

Moments like—reading books with my dad underneath the giant willow at Cannon Hill park whilst sitting atop its winding roots, watercolour painting with my mom and swirling the bright pigment into water watching it twirl and loop around, my grandma teaching me to knit at the hospital while we awaited for news about my great grandfather, my parents’ getting divorced and coming back to a cold, lifeless house as a teenager feeling empty inside, going on long drives by myself listening to Arctic Monkey melodies and hating the world, hiking with Janie and screaming into the void, announcing our presence atop a hill at Bowl & Pitcher and feeling utterly invincible, swimming in the Spokane river feeling its clear, cool water float me to the top giving me a sense of weightlessness and surrender, delivering my first presentation to my university classmates in Spain feeling both nervous and daring, walking on the Camino and relishing every part…the mental View-Master lands on one singular moment that rewinds me back to the 5th grade speech meet at my school. It was an annual event that required each student to memorise a poem of their choosing and then perform it in front of their entire class, teachers, a panel of judges and any parents who wanted to witness. I had chosen ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling, the author of The Jungle Book.

It is a beautiful poem with sage advice about a call to courage, a quieting of one’s ego and ultimately not caring about other people’s words, but trusting your own voice. And there I was a quiet fifth grader with a short French bob, pale face and big, brown eyes that bared my soul for all the world to see, shaking in my nervousness. It was almost my turn. I seem to remember wearing my navy blue fleece, a dark green plaid jumper and green collared polo; all the colours of a forest hewn into a midnight sky. 

It was my turn. I slowly walked up, like a prisoner to the guillotine and introduced my name, the poem and author and began to recite. My heart pounded in my ears, my palms sweated profusely, everyone’s eyes were on me. As a girl, I never enjoyed the spotlight, I didn’t like prolonged attention. I preferred to slink in the background and remain unseen—invisible. There is something extremely vulnerable about talking in front of a crowd of people. Suddenly, all eyes are on you, leaving you exposed. Your looks, your posture, your nervous ticks…in essence, your humanness, all on display and submitted to the public eye, which at the time, I viewed as scary and unsafe. 

I continued to recite, yet every face, every gesture became increasingly overwhelming to my senses. I was aware of everything and it terrified me. I was becoming incredibly self-conscious and seemed to be having a panic attack making it hard to remember to breathe. The lack of oxygen caused my voice to falter, and then tremble heavily. All I could do was start crying because I didn’t know what was happening, yet still I continued to recite. It must’ve been my body’s way of releasing the fear. No one said a word or jumped in to rescue me. They just sat there, some moms’ eyes welling with tears of pity. My dad was there too, but he just sat there, not knowing what to do and so doing nothing. The one person who I needed in that moment, my mom, wasn’t there and I felt completely alone and suddenly turned into a shameful spectacle.

I continued to falter on, crying and spitting out my poem in a still shaky voice. What a sorry sight I must have made. I made it to the end, I didn’t give up, I stood there continuing to fight and miraculously made it the metaphorical finish line, flooding me with relief. I asked my teacher to go to the bathroom, desperately craving to get away and remove myself from the stage. Cut scene.

That moment has been replayed over and over again in my mind. Over the next many years, that singular scene haunted me. I seemed to be paralysed, still trapped by the trauma stored in that moment. At times, I viewed myself with pity, others with self-contempt, others still with admiration and now it seems that I have to come to view that adorable fifth grade version with unadulterated love and care. 

I revisit this moment in my mind as the woman I am now and I watch my younger self perform her poem, her voice beginning to shake. I notice how no one steps in to help her out, so I do. I quietly get up from the crowd and make my way to the front. When I arrive, I take her small, sweaty palms in mine and have her face towards me. All eyes are on us, but I’m no longer afraid of an audience. I beam a smile at her, loving every part of who she is, admiring her determination and bravery to carry on.

I lovingly tell her to pause and take a deep breath. I inform her that the reason her voice shakes is because she hasn’t inhaled, that it can happen to anyone, normalising it for her. I tell her that she is not alone, that I am here with her, and that she is safe, loved and precious. I continue to hold one of her hands as I tell her to go on, but this time with me at her side. We turn to face the audience, together, and younger Miriam takes a deep breath and carries on with renewed vigour and confidence. After she finishes her poem in a clear voice, she’s met with applause and turns toward me to smile and sink into my tight embrace that I give to her on my knees, at her level. I whisper into her ear so only she can hear it that I’m wildly proud of her. I pause to let the words sink in. I tell her that her spirit to never give up even in the face of fear will aid her on the long journey to come. She nods with understanding, looking at me with admiration in her large, brown eyes which well with tears and sparkle light and gratitude. They mirror my own. I kiss her forehead, and then I turn to leave, exiting the door and returning to where I am in the present: seated in a swivel chair and blanketed, listening to the Jane Eyre movie score and sipping on warm tea with a soppy smile on my face. Happy tears stream out. 

Instantly, that singular moment has been redeemed in my mind as if some magic wand has completely transformed it into something beautiful. The struggle has been turned into triumph. It’s been stored in a different way, suddenly not so scary to revisit and part of my story that has now been integrated effectively because it’s been accepted with compassion.

It would seem that these are the very moments in which we are truly forged. Our very spirit is made in them and I am fiercely grateful for it’s made me the human I am today.