Anyone a New Girl fan?
There is a scene that lives rent free in my mind. It’s my Roman Empire. Jess, the lead female of the show, is being grumpily scrutinized by Nick, another lead character. He storms into her room, dissecting everything he claims “needs to change”. From her gigantic ball of yarn, to her night peanuts (there is a distinction), to her un-sexy vintage purses, their discourse is quite hilarious. However, one thing he dislikes is her box of “metal toothpicks.” When she corrects him, he continues to be over-dramatic, shouting “you need bobby’s pins to put your hair up?!”
Classic.
The point is, these metal toothpicks hold a sentimental place in my heart. Ever since I was old enough to be on stage, I’ve had to endure the pain and torment of these contraptions. They truly do hold your hair in place. Conversely, even though they did their job well, we were always losing them. We’d be backstage, bent over like ballerina operatives foraging for abandoned pins in the dark. Pretty hot commodities when you don’t want your ponytail to do a slow striptease for the audience.
When life took a heavy turn, I found myself staring down at my own box of “bobby’s” pins, wondering when I would ever use them again. And even though it looked different than what I had imagined, that day did come.
I often crafted ways to share small gestures of love with my fellow coworkers. As a teacher, responsibilities were numerous and the stress high. So, I stole a few pins from my box and left them with a handful of colleagues. Attached to the pin read, “In case you need help holding it together, I’ve got you covered.” Something along those lines at least.
Now, anytime I spot a bobby pin, I associate it with life’s struggles. I find humor whenever one is alone on a sidewalk or in the street. I’ll whip out my phone, snap a picture, and caption it with something like, “oh no, someone’s falling apart today!”
They are relatively easy to spot in the city. You can find at least one within ten minutes of walking. But on Sunday, I made it a point to look down to the ground as I walked home from Stockbridge along the Water of Leith. As the world moved around me, couples holding hands, dogs playing, the water rushing, the wind dancing, it became apparent that I wasn’t meant to find one there. How could anyone be falling apart here? This is where you go to heal.
This is where I go to heal.
Edinburgh’s nature, it’s natural beauty sewn into the city, has been a tonic. “Touch the trees,” a friend told me. I think it’s why I embraced running. At first, I did it to run away from so many big feelings. This crushing weight of not being smart enough, well enough, pretty enough, good enough. I was choking on them. Yet, little did I know, the fresh air was filling my chest with permission to feel all these things deeply and have enough breath to continue moving forward. Back at home, all I felt was suffocation, like sulfur lining my lungs.
I honestly believe in environments playing a role in how we see ourselves, heal ourselves. You don’t blame a plant for its death; you look at its surroundings. Same with humans. I was on this monstrous merry-go-round, all colors faded and objects blurring into one. It made me question life and whether I wanted to be a part of it anymore. I was slowly dying, wondering when my last breath would arrive.
There just weren’t enough bobby pins to hold my breaking heart together.
So, in 2022, I decided to grab a defibrillator and recalibrate. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew it was the right thing; that intuition they write about in fairytales. I bought some tickets, quit my job, and uprooted what was left of this person I once knew — a girl who believed in more than the soil she had settled in.
One of those tickets was to Edinburgh. It was like magic, the rabbit pulled from the top hat. Something about her resuscitated me. Someone. And that first breath turned my world technicolor.
I knew I needed to fight, brutally if necessary, to get back to her. I still had no idea what I was doing but knew settling back home was not an option anymore.
Fast forward to Sunday. It still feels like a dream. Like one day I will wake up and it will all be gone. But it’s not a dream. It’s a gift I gave myself. I look at that castle every morning. One breath. I plod along the Water of Leith to the Shore. Another breath. I stare up at the window I once knew. Another. and another. Edinburgh is a wireless oxygen tank that ensures, even in the hard moments, that it’s going to be okay. That I belong. That I will never, ever rely on a box of metal toothpicks to keep me whole.
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