Jamie Austin

Elder in a maelstrom

They say if you make it to 30, you’ve already succeeded. So many of us don’t survive. Don’t get to step into our skin.  

I think of us as nesting dolls in reverse. We begin small, and each layer gains new paint. It grows and grows and maybe we strip one back. Maybe when we reach maturity the outside looks vastly different. With our small authentic selves inside. Some of us different, adding the details that feels safe and some, like war paint. We knew in our bones and in our skin how we fit. We cried, and laughed, bent and shook to make room for our true selves.

Listened to legislation and prose from those who saw our true selves and shouted denial. Told our truths in caged throats and needle-sharp voices, until the words could flow like a river.

And then we watched as hatred became leader again. Fought the instincts to be small again. Reminding ourselves we grew to 31. Reminding ourselves we have survived. The world feels confusing and loud. Safety planning next steps feel like a journey with video game bosses, ready to destroy.
I filed a name change and stored my grief and each layer became raw with every paper form. I wait for a judge to decide, if I can still be safe. If I can be me.

If I, an elder in this maelstrom can someday find the clear path.