On Melancholy and Other Beautiful Things

Written on a quiet sunday afternoon.

From time to time, melancholy comes to visit.

Not with drama or despair. It comes carrying memories, old dreams, faces I haven't seen in years, and questions that no longer require answers.

I have learned not to fight it.

When I was younger, I imagined my life would unfold in a particular way. I would be happily married, living for my husband and children. I would pursue an academic career. I would have biological children and watch them grow. I would grow old beside the love of my life.

My future seemed clear, almost pre-written, and I walked toward it with the certainty only youth can possess.

Life, however, had other plans.

Over the years, I have mourned many things.

I have mourned the children I conceived but never held.

I have mourned a marriage that should never have happened in the first place.

I have mourned the loss of my mother.

I have mourned friends and family members I loved deeply who never loved me back in quite the same way.

Loss has a curious way of reshaping us. It softens some edges while sharpening others. It teaches us what matters and reveals what never truly belonged to us in the first place.

Of all my losses, the absence of my mother remains one of the most profound.

I miss her laugh.

I miss her smell.

I miss everything about her.

There are some people whose presence becomes part of the architecture of our lives. When they leave, we spend years learning how to inhabit the spaces they once occupied.

For a long time, I believed adulthood would bring certainty. I thought that by now I would feel sure of myself. I imagined that fear would disappear, heartbreak would become easier to bear, and life would eventually make sense.

Instead, I find that I am still scared sometimes.

Still easily heartbroken.

Still occasionally lost.

My younger self would be shocked by that. She would be surprised to learn that solitude sometimes weighs heavily on me. She would be surprised to discover that uncertainty never fully left us, no matter how many birthdays we celebrate.

But she would also be proud.

She would see a woman who carries herself with dignity.

A woman who has built a life filled with joy.

A woman who remains kind despite disappointment.

A woman who remains hopeful despite evidence that hope is not always rewarded.

She would see someone who survived.

And perhaps that is my greatest triumph.

On the days when melancholy makes its presence felt, I often find myself overwhelmed by gratitude for being alive.

As a survivor of a suicide attempt, this gratitude is not theoretical. It is not a motivational quote or a philosophical exercise. It is something I feel in my bones.

There was a time when I could not imagine a future.

There was a time when simply making it through the day felt impossible.

And yet, here I am.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Planning.

Dreaming.

Dancing.

Especially dancing.

Recently, I started taking salsa lessons, and I have discovered something beautiful: movement brings me joy.

Not only the movement of my body, but the movement of life itself.

The movement of changing my mind.

The movement of revising old dreams.

The movement of becoming someone I never planned to be.

I used to believe authenticity required consistency. That if I changed my dreams, I had somehow betrayed them.

Now I know better.

My character, dreams, and plans do not have to be set in stone to be authentic.

They can evolve.

They can pivot.

They can expand.

And so can I.

One of the most important lessons life has taught me is about love.

For years, I mourned relationships in which my love was not returned. I viewed them as failures, evidence of something missing or lacking.

Now I see them differently.

Love is fulfilling even when it is not reciprocated.

Love itself is healing.

The act of loving enlarges us.

The people I loved did not always stay. They did not always choose me. Some left. Some disappointed me. Some were taken by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

But the love I felt was real.

And real love always leaves a trace of beauty behind.

If I could gather everyone I have loved and lost around a table - my mother, the children I never held, old friends, former versions of myself - I know exactly what I would want them to know.

I would want them to know that I am here.

That I am loving life.

That I am grateful for everything I have experienced, both the beautiful and the heartbreaking.

That I look toward the next minute with joy.

With love.

With gratitude.

For all that I am.

For all that I have been.

For all that I am still becoming.

The life I imagined did not arrive exactly as planned.

Some dreams disappeared.

Others transformed beyond recognition.

And yet, when I look around, I find a life that is rich with friendship, family, purpose, learning, laughter, movement, and hope.

I may not be where I once wanted to be.

But I am intentionally here.

And perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps melancholy itself has a purpose.

Not to make us sad.

Not to keep us trapped in the past.

But to remind us that we have lived.

That we have loved.

That we have lost.

And that despite everything, we remain open to move in wonder.