Month 12 is over, it’s been three weeks and I have been conditioned that it is now time to move and see my squad.
The only problem is that this month 12 has looked far different than the last 11. I don’t know the next time I will see my squad and I now have to continue re-enter into the country I now live.
The last three weeks has been not of me chasing children and giving high fives, but sad that it would no longer be acceptable for me to chase the kids I see.
It has been of me sleeping in a bed of my own, in a room of my own instead of in a bed with three others and a room with six others.
There are no longer language barriers due to different languages, just barriers from different understandings.
There are no longer team times, feedback, checking in, there is freedom. Freedom to get in a car and drive, freedom to do what I want, when I want. But with that freedom comes the prison of thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t even know I had.
Enter project searchlight. A chance for racers to get together one (possibly but hopefully not) final time to talk about the race, being home, what we are doing next, how we are doing and everything in between.
I came to Atlanta feeling great. I’ve had a good time at home seeing friends and family and now I’m here to see the family I spent the last 11 months growing with.
Seeing everyone was great. Hearing stories from homes were great, our sessions were great. They ranged from finding your calling, to making sound financial decisions to finding your new normal.
And then I sat down.
And cried…
I realized I’m not ok…
And that’s OK.
I’m not ok because I’m still grieving the place I came from, the place I can never return.
I’m grieving the USA I left, and the person I left it as.
Now the USA is not a bad place nor was the person I left as.
We are just different.
I see things differently. I say things differently. I want things differently.
I was given an image of a child coloring in a coloring book and she was going over the lines. She wasn’t worried that you are supposed to color in the confined lines on the page. She was being bold and courageous. She was making something beautiful. Not to society standards, but to her fathers. For he was looking down on her and was so proud.
I no longer want to bend to the will of this world and its expectations of me because that’s what I am “supposed” to do.
I no longer want to color in the lines.
So here I am now, crayon in my hand, with a page, a blank page, with no lines constricting me, nothing stopping me and the chance to create something beautiful.
