Normal

I think about a time when I was around ten years old.

My mom, my dad, my sister, and I had gone to some sort of convention or amusement park. I don't remember exactly where it was anymore. What I remember is how it felt.

It felt safe. It felt happy. It felt like one of those memories you don't realize will stay with you forever until years later.

There was a raffle. Everyone had a number. There were prizes, activities, and an announcer standing on a stage hosting games.

We sat together at a round table. My family. My whole world.

I remember having a pop sitting in front of me while the announcer called numbers. The game was set up like an old Nickelodeon game show. Double Dare.

I remember thinking: What if they pick me? What if I get slimed? Who gets to go back to school after summer vacation and tell everyone they got slimed on a Nickelodeon game show?

Me. Obviously.

The announcer started calling numbers. Then he called mine.

Out of all the people in that room, somehow I got picked.

That wasn't unusual for me back then.

At least that's what everyone always told me.

"Kendall is lucky."

I heard it my whole life.

Lucky.

Lucky enough to get picked. Lucky enough to win things. Lucky enough to somehow end up in the middle of experiences other people missed.

I didn't end up getting slimed.

But that isn't really the point.

The point is that I remember the feeling.

I remember looking back toward my family. I remember laughing. I remember being excited. I remember feeling loved.

I remember feeling like life was full of possibilities.

I remember being lucky.

It's strange how much a word can change over time.

Because if someone called me lucky today, I don't know if I would know how to respond.

There are days when I feel like the most unlucky person in the world.

I've lost my dad.

I've lost relationships that meant everything to me.

I've lost stability. I've lost a home. I've lost transportation. I've lost pieces of the life I thought I was building.

I've watched grief change people.

I've watched survival change people.

I've watched people who once felt like home become harder and harder to reach.

And sometimes I find myself wondering: When did everything change?

Lately I keep thinking about a message from my mom.

She asked me why I couldn't just be normal.

That question has stayed with me.

Not because it made me angry. Because it made me sad.

Because if there is one thing I have spent my entire life trying to do, it is exactly that.

I've spent years trying to be what everyone wanted me to be.

The good daughter. The helpful daughter. The successful daughter. The responsible daughter. The daughter who figured everything out.

I've spent years trying to make people proud of me.

Trying to build a future. Trying to build a career. Trying to create stability. Trying to become someone my family could believe in.

People look at me and wonder why I don't just settle. Why I don't just take whatever comes along. Why I keep trying for something bigger.

The answer isn't because I think I'm above anything.

It's because I know what I'm capable of.

I know what I can do. I know the work I've put in. I know the person I'm trying to become.

I know there is more inside me than survival.

I'm not refusing to build a life.

I'm trying desperately to build one.

Maybe my path doesn't look like everyone else's. Maybe it takes me longer. Maybe I've had to rebuild more times than most people.

But that shouldn't stop me from being someone's daughter.

It shouldn't stop me from being someone's sister.

It shouldn't stop me from being loved.

Another thing my mom said was that she spent thousands of dollars trying to help me get my life together.

Maybe that's true.

But what hurts is feeling like every mistake I've ever made gets remembered while every good thing gets forgotten.

Because I made mistakes when I was younger too.

I struggled then too.

And somehow people still loved me through it.

So what is different now?

That's the question I can't stop asking myself.

What changed?

Because I know I've grown.

I know I've learned.

I know I've survived things that would have broken me years ago.

I know I've worked harder on myself than most people realize.

So what changed?

Was it me? Was it grief? Was it survival? Was it time?

Or did we all become so busy carrying our own pain that we stopped seeing each other clearly?

Maybe I'll never know.

But I know this.

The little girl who got called onto that stage is still here.

The girl who believed life was full of possibilities.

The girl everyone called lucky.

The girl who looked back at her family and felt loved.

I haven't stopped being her.

I've just been trying to find my way back.