It’s quiet days like today when memories tend to surface. It has been happening more and more lately. I think because I’m finally centered and balanced enough to face the past. It wasn’t always that way, though. Shame and embarrassment once pushed me to bury certain memories and truths.

As you read these scribbles, you’ll meet the many versions of me with common threads of a deep joy with nature (especially with flowers), hypersensitivities, and a lifelong relationship with anxiety. I won’t call these threads a beautiful tapestry of my life, but more the mismatched squares of my quilt. 

My earliest memories are with my identical twin and my mother. Dad worked a lot and attended night school for his Master’s degree, so my sister and I spent most of our time alone with Mom. I remember the shared affection, fun, and happiness. It wasn’t until I started elementary school that things began to change.

The principal suggested separating my sister and me into different classes. We were kind of stuck together in our own little twin world. That’s when anxiety and hypersensitivity crept into my life. 

“Uncomfortable” doesn’t quite describe my feelings in a classroom. My fast fluency in reading, writing, math, and learning new concepts was quickly recognized by teachers. While I enjoyed pleasing them with my work, I also became embarrassed and wanted other kids to share in the praise. Being the center of attention was not a welcome feeling. I actually hated it. Maybe because it hadn’t happened before? Twins share everything, and any attention I had experienced was with her close by my side. At times, I purposefully underperformed in school to steer attention elsewhere. Looking back, I believe this was when the negative voice in my head first spoke up. 

Around that same time, I also discovered my love of drawing, especially drawing flowers. I vividly remember when Mom first taught me to draw a rose: start at the center, add petals, grow my flower as big as I wanted. My mind quieted as I drew, focusing on the curve of each petal and choosing different shades and varieties of flowers. Yellow and pink were my favorite colors and still are today. 

I’d sit in the yard, watching the flowers in the garden, experiencing pure joy. I suppose I was practicing mindfulness without realizing it. I still do this today when stressed. I’ll walk in a park, find a flower to focus on, trace its gentle lines with my finger, and box breathe. It’s powerful medicine! 

Back then, I also discovered that I needed my parents’ approval—badly. The voice in my head tortured me if I disappointed them. I didn’t just need to please them, but everyone around me as well. 

As a result of that pressure, my shyness erupted. Mom, who was extremely outgoing and friendly, was embarrassed by my withdrawn behavior. The more she told me to stand up straight, smile, and talk to people, the further into my shell I crawled. That’s when the physical pain began. My stomach hurt. I avoided looking others in the eye, afraid they’d see my weirdness inside. 

Anxiety spread. A constant worry of losing my parents would not leave me alone. I remember praying many, many times during the day whenever the worry would hit me. I told no one. Drawing the flowers helped distract me from the troubling thoughts. Playing the piano helped, too. But that time is my earliest memory of genuine fear. 

Then came middle school. Several elementary schools merged to form the middle school, resulting in many new faces in the halls and classrooms. A fresh start for me? I made a conscious effort to talk more. Joined the band. Played basketball for one year. We were divided into classes based on our different learning levels, which was a great comfort to me. I finally blended in.

Sadly, things at home grew more uncomfortable. My parents bothered me. Mom was complaining more about being unhappy with this or that. Dad grew silent and moody or angrily shushed her. I felt it was my job to fix things, but I didn’t know how. 

Writing this now,  I’m struggling to find the words to describe the discomfort in my body and mind over seeing my parents fight, in particular, witnessing Mom upset. Even when they were over their disagreement, the pain lingered inside me, as if I had done something wrong. I vividly remember cutting flowers from the yard and arranging pretty bouquets to set in vases around the house. Somehow it helped. From that point on, my emotions became tightly tethered to Mom’s. One sense of her upset, and I crumbled into despair. 

Thankfully, high school marked a turning point for the better in most ways. I experienced a rush of confidence. Still not sure how that happened. Because my sister and I were in the honors program, we were in classes together for the first time. We joined the dance team. Enjoyed the same friends. But we also fought—a lot. All I can say is I became harshly judgmental of her every move. Nervous even about how she was performing in the classroom and how she was acting around our friends. Maybe it was because I was fitting in for the first time and didn’t want her to jeopardize it. We were once again halves of a whole, and her every move affected me. 

Because high school was such a busy time, I wasn’t home as much. And when I was, I locked myself away in my room. I could see the flowers in the backyard from the window. There was also a cornfield beyond the fence. Gazing out the window calmed me, and I came not only to enjoy but also to seek solitude. 

Then college drew near. The best thing that happened was my twin and I deciding to attend different colleges in different cities. From that moment on, our previously splintered relationship began to heal. We became as close as we had when we were young, talking on the phone and visiting each other often. The distance gave me a renewed appreciation for her. That bond still holds strong. 

Despite that positive note, my anxiety reached new heights in college, affecting me in new ways. Anxiety was a changeling—becoming a different monster at different seasons of life. While, as a young girl, worries of losing my parents consumed me, in college, most days, a voice told me I’d be the one to die. I became nervous being in a closed-door room with a group of people. It was awful! My heart thumped so loudly that I was sure the other students could hear it. Sometimes I couldn’t swallow. A holistic healer later told me that I was probably overwhelmed by everyone else’s energy in those moments and was exhibiting a flight response. 

So, I started skipping classes. To keep my scholarship, I had to maintain a GPA of 3.5. Luckily, my ability to learn easily allowed me to keep up. I self-taught. Borrowed others’ notes. And continued to ace tests. But, it took its toll. The shame ate at me. For years after, I had nightmares about my parents finding out I was skipping so many classes or angry teachers failing me. I believe acupuncture and Reiki have removed the ties to that negative energy, releasing that guilt. 

I knew something was wrong with me, but I couldn’t tell anyone because I couldn’t face the possible judgment. I reverted to the shy elementary school girl who couldn’t look people in the eye. I withdrew. I’d walk past someone I knew without saying hello. I could not say hello if my life depended on it. I was labeled stuck-up. The scar from that label ran particularly deep.

As is life, another change arrived on the college campus—a boy. A baseball player took an interest in me. Not just a subtle interest, that boy flat-out stalked me for months. I was drawn to his energy. He was everything I wasn’t—confident, outgoing, and fearless. 

He invited me into his friend group. I even became a college cheerleader. Me! Still can’t believe that one. No gymnastic abilities here, but because of my prior dance training, I could do the moves, and as it happened, the squad moved toward dance routines during time-outs and on the sidelines. I was able to overcome my shyness because I was part of a group and convinced myself no one was watching me. 

However, classroom anxiety never let up. I navigated it as best I could, and kept it from my boyfriend until my senior year. My heart palpitations increased, headaches began, and I ended up in the hospital. A doctor explained to me that although it felt like I was dying, I wasn’t. I was experiencing debilitating anxiety attacks. I got my first taste of Xanax and liked it, but that’s a story for another time. Today, Lexapro gives my learned coping skills and holistic therapies an assist in managing my anxiety. 

The most challenging thing about anxiety is that it isn’t something people can see, like a limp, so they don’t understand its impact. No one sees the physical pain that accompanies the doomsday voice. Why, if I had a dime for every time someone told me to “just to think positive”, I’d have retired years ago!  

I felt I was embarrassing my parents and also my boyfriend with my anxiety struggles. Despite all, the baseball player married me. It was great… until it wasn’t. His career choice thrust him into the spotlight, where he thrived. Me, not so much. You can probably guess what happened, right? I shrank back inside my shell. Worse than ever before. Standing beside him, my inner voice screamed at me that I was being negatively judged. He wanted a mate comfortably shining beside him, not a shrinking wallflower. I became sick often. Others viewed me as no fun and unfriendly, in my mind anyway. 

And then my husband left me.

That was the most afraid I’d ever been in my life. But then…

That’s when my young son started bringing me flowers. Everywhere we went, he’d find a flower to pick to give me. And then joy as vibrant as the color of the petals would settle inside me. He reminded me of my love of flowers. I planted them all over our yard and frequently bought fresh rose bouquets from the grocery store to place around the house. 

And I know what you’re thinking… me and Mom. The difference was that I constantly reassured my son that I was fine and he wasn’t responsible for making me happy. I told him every day that I could and would take care of us without Dad in our home. In doing that, something amazing happened! I learned the power of the spoken word. Suddenly, I believed I could take care of us. I discovered a strength within me that I never knew existed. 

My son had ADHD with a healthy dose of learning disabilities thrown in. And I, his mother, who had no clue about the learning difficulties, had to figure out how to help him. But one look into his big, beautiful blue eyes, and I remembered the promise I made his birth mother. I swore that I’d be the best mother in the world for him. I dove in and, with his hard work (and the help of many teachers and advisors), helped him navigate all those years to graduate from high school, enjoying many successes along the way. Even today, I still possess that strength within me—a resilience when I’m in a crisis. Despite the anxiety, the strength I gained in raising him as a single mother never left me. 

Do you want to hear something truly odd? My son is even more extroverted than his father. He has this joyful spirit and light that draws attention to him. You’d never know about his learning disabilities unless you sat beside him in a classroom. Outside that box, he thrives with his creativity, personality, and skills with his hands. And I never once shrank away from the spotlight, standing alongside him. Why? I have decided it's because I never felt judged by him, never feared it. In believing he accepted me for who I was, I was allowed to be that quirky mom. The creativity I once enjoyed as a young girl bloomed once again as I introduced him to the wonderful world of art. My focus became him instead of myself. 

Today, he shares his hopes, dreams, and fears with me, and I share with him. Along with my relationship with my twin, it’s the most comfortable relationship I’ve ever known. 

Anxiety has stitched many colorful squares in my quilt, alongside strength and resilience. And now, I want to dive deeper into my hypersensitivities. 

Therapists have told me I’m empathic, which is under the umbrella of a highly sensitive person. For me, that explains why I don’t like to be physically too close to people, as it makes me uncomfortable. “Uncomfortable” seems to be my word, but once again, it really doesn’t do the feeling justice. I simply can’t tolerate it. This started in high school. You know how girls are always hanging on each other, hugging, arm-in-arm walking around. That wasn’t me. I needed space. Still do. My close girlfriends knew not to try to hug me. I rarely hugged my parents or sister. I don’t want to sit shoulder to shoulder; I need the aisle seat. 

But for some reason, that doesn’t apply to a mate or children. With a mate, I crave affection, closeness, and intimacy. And I can hug my son and other children all day long. And that’s all okay. I’m okay. I didn’t always feel okay about it, but now I do. I guess I’ve learned to pick my battles with myself. 

Being empathic also means I absorb other people’s emotions. If you succeed, I feel joy as if the accolade is my own. If you are unhappy, I need to make it right. In my mind, it’s my responsibility. My emotions have been tethered to everyone I’m associated with, which is why I spend so much time alone. I now know how to clear my own negative energy, but I’m unable to clear yours. While I’ve learned some techniques like shielding to protect myself while caring for my parents with Alzheimer’s, I’m not likely to ever enjoy being in a packed crowd. This is probably my remaining biggest struggle. 

Now, I thrive in online communities because I’m at a safe distance, but I still need breaks from time to time. I unplug. Get alone in nature, and reset myself. 

Being hypersensitive also means I can’t eat foods with certain textures or colors. Tight clothes? Not for me. In particular, I can’t wear shirts that fit too snugly under my arms. I feel trapped, and a flight response from my shirt hits me. So, I wear oversized clothes most of the time or clothes with a stretch to them. I hold my nose walking through the perfume section of a department store. 

These “quirks” are part of who I am, and I don’t need to change that part. It is what it is. The worst thing it brings is people calling me “picky,” but I can now live with that. 

With the guidance of holistic healers via acupuncture, Reiki, and counseling, all the struggles from my past no longer haunt me as they once did. Recently, I shared some memories with my Reiki healer and realized I was describing those moments as if I were watching myself through a window. I felt detached from the fear, pain, and embarrassment. My heart didn’t seize. No punch to my gut. 

That moment was a wonderful gift.  

Scars are nothing to be ashamed of. They’re not as ugly as we’ve been taught to believe. My scars (and wrinkles) show that I’ve lived. Interacted. Experienced things. Stumbled, then put on my big girl panties, and got on with life. While flowers pretty up the world, scars play essential characters, giving our stories depth. They’re proof that we heal from wounds. I look upon my quilt with no regrets. I wouldn’t want to be anyone else with any other life. 

Someone once told me we’re all here to learn and/or teach for what comes next. As I discovered, many of the teaching moments leave a mark. Petals, well, they tend to soften the rough patches. 

And on that note, it’s probably a good place to wrap up since Butters is purring for my attention, clearly bored with watching me write.

So, let me end with this: I’m a work in progress, and I’ll continue to make peace with the past for a better, healthier future.

Loving, forgiving, and accepting myself carries no uncomfortable weight, so I’ll be doing more of that…