Look for the Stars

On Finding Joy and Continuing On.

“What fresh horrors do we face today?” I ask no one in a fake-cheery tone, as I open the New York Times and sip my morning coffee. I’m not sure when I adopted this as part of my routine. Five months ago? Ten? Time has been a slippery thief in this season of life.

If I were setting a scene for my Piece of Keik series, I would stage a physical paper flipped open in perfect symmetry, a steaming cup of coffee in delicate china, and rollers in my freshly set hair. But in reality — where I sometimes live — my newspaper routine is a morning scroll; my coffee, iced with a splash of oatmilk, and my hair defies gravity in ways that would make flat-earthers reconsider their stance.

Dark humor has long been a shield against personal trauma, like my sister and I saying “daddy?” when a most wanted mugshot pops up on screen. Relatable? Possibly. Disturbing? Depends on the audience. And though I’m not quite at the point where I can mask my horror and sadness with jokes when it comes to current events, I greet the day in my Stepford Wife-meets-Weird Barbie persona to soften the news that my sensitive morning stomach isn’t ready to digest. I wash it down with my daily puzzles and a bit of good news.

Order in the chaos.
A star in the dark night sky.

And then I go about my day. I sew a dress. I film a video. I write this post.

Desensitized? No. Not yet. Hopefully never. And maybe “soften the news” isn’t quite the right way to put it. I’m not sure that’s possible, or that it should be. We already seem to be moving the “worst case scenario” goalpost farther and farther away. It’s more to soften myself. Like letting my body go limp before impact.

Despite sometimes feeling like we’re a bunch of frogs slowly boiling in a pot of water, I consciously choose to seek out joy wherever I can find it. Happiness takes work even in the best of times for those who struggle with depression. That includes me.

So, I do what I can — both to help and to keep on going. I know when I need to turn off my phone and create something, read a book, or turn on The Righteous Gemstones and giggle. I think about the things I have to look forward to: a trip, a holiday gathering, the ridiculous costume I can’t wait to start working on. Eyes straight ahead, I do not allow myself to catastrophize. I focus on all those bright spots ahead: little stars coaxing me forward. It keeps me going.

Right now, I’m sitting next to Lacy (our cat), Cleo, and Shug (my sister’s dog and cat) — maybe the brightest stars of all. I’ve already dazzled them with one of their many original theme songs, and now I’m writing this as they nap in different poses all around me, like domesticated woodland creatures and their budget Disney princess. I keep thinking about how soon, my little sister will have another little (human!) one for us to babysit. And by “us,” I mean probably not me by myself, because what do I know about babies?

And that’s the thing. I don’t want my little niece growing up in a world that feels beyond repair. I already resent the fact that active-shooter drills are just a normal part of life for my older nieces and nephews, and yet we have only moved toward looser gun laws. I resent the fact that adults — who should be leading by example — showed nothing but hate toward a transgender student at my niece’s school. Teachers were suspended, the school was fined, and the student was unwillingly thrown into the spotlight — all because she was on the girls’ volleyball team. A teen. As if being a teen isn’t hard enough, grown adults had to out her.

For me, the flicker of light was seeing her peers (including my wonderful niece) supporting her and their teachers in a mass walkout.

Why is it that children are often the ones who behave like grown-ups?

To give you some perspective: this is the same district as Marjory Stoneman Douglas.
Protect students from violence? Not a priority.
Punish them for being trans? A pressing matter.
I will never understand.

This is what happens when I think too much. I tense up, brace for impact, and end up injured and unable to function. I wanted to keep this light, and now here I am: wading into deep, dark water with a pocket full of rocks, a stitch in my side, and no idea how I got here.

I let my body relax. I float to the surface.

And once I catch my breath, I remind myself to look for the stars.

My goodness, they’re all around me.

To ignore their light feels ungrateful, unworthy of their glimmer. I don’t want to take them for granted.

I don’t want my niece growing up thinking leaders should be aggressively hateful, or that the only way to communicate is by yelling at each other. I know she’ll grow up surrounded by kindness and compassion and consideration of others, because that’s how my sister and brother-in-law move through the world: with open hearts that haven’t hardened.

But me? Sometimes I have to check myself — so I don’t lose my humanity the way so many others have, or root myself in anger.

I may not be a mother, but I’m an aunt who takes her role very seriously. I want my nieces and nephews to grow up believing the world is still worth loving and that change is still possible. That no leader should be blindly followed or exalted. That loving one doesn’t require hating another. That joy is not to be rationed; that levity is a necessity. That in the darkest moments, whimsy can be a lifeline.

I want them to know that differences are not threats and the world is so much smaller than they realize — we have far more in common than not. That being compassionate is so much better than being cruel. I want them to know it’s okay not to know all the answers — but it’s not okay to pretend you do.

I want them to know that even in a world that feels like it’s unraveling at the seams, they can still stitch something beautiful back into it.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself.

And when I forget, I think of them — little stars in the big, dark sky — and begin again.