Muscle Memory

The one before midnight.

When I was little, my mom would take me everywhere she went. I grew up an only child, so for as long as I can remember, my mom was my number one companion. Before I was in school, I remember going with her to all her errands — supermarket to grocery shop, the dentist, even the salon to get her eyebrows waxed — everywhere. Anywhere. I was her sidekick.

Usually, I loved this. My mom was my first best friend — the ultimate, really — and we almost always had a good time together, even running the most annoying of errands. And, like most kids who grow up without siblings around, I learned to get really good at entertaining myself if I became bored. I would bring my homework or a book wherever we were headed to keep myself busy if needed, and I picked up an uncanny ability to tune anything and everyone out if necessary. I could zone out in seconds, easily lost in whatever I was reading. I have a vivid memory of reading in the middle of a noisy Chinese restaurant, because I was uninterested in the conversation the adults were having. (In other words, just call me Rory.) In adulthood this has persisted, when I’m reading as well as writing. I’m consumed by the words, the same way I was as a kid.

Last night, Taylor Swift released her latest studio album. [Stay with me…] As I was waiting to for the drop (solely because I’m on the west coast and it was out at 9pm PT), I found myself becoming melancholy. At first I didn’t pay attention to the feeling. Figured it was just because I was tired, and instead I kept trying to write this newsletter, starting and stopping my draft. I kept starting down a path and then changing my mind about what to write about. I couldn’t settle in, something that almost never happens to me when I’m writing most anything, but especially this newsletter. I couldn’t get into a groove, the melancholiness only growing.

I’d been in a fine mood all day, but as I sat here trying to write, my brain cluttered with questions about this new album, I found myself reminded of the first time Taylor had a late night release of an album (at least that I was aware of) — her Folklore album, in July 2020. Suddenly I realized what my issue was; that album, and these midnight drops, cause a strange sort of PTSD for me, as Folklore was released the same day my mom took a sudden and unexpected turn for the worst. The exact evening, after midnight, that she was put on a ventilator. That night leading up to the album drop was the very last time I ever spoke to her again (and it was via text message). Even writing it out now, again, more than two years later, I find myself sitting in shock. Like that must be someone else’s memory, no? How could that have happened in my life? To my mom? My mouth is dry, my chest tight, as if it’s happening all over again.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t have been.

That Friday morning, Folklore officially out, I went for a 5 mile run listening to nothing but that album, periodically stopping to sob in the middle of the roads of my neighborhood here in LA, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic. Later that day, my husband and I would drive 5 or so hours to the city where my mom lived, and I would see her for what would be the last Friday of her life. The kind evening nurse would put on “Friends” for her after I told her my mom loved to laugh, and that would be that. Two days later, on a hot summer morning, I’d hear the chorus from “Exile” (from the Folklore album), playing on a loop in my head as I stood next to my mom’s hospital bed, softly telling her over and over that I loved her, and that I knew she wanted to stay, but that it was okay if she couldn’t. That I’d find a way to understand. To be okay.

“I think I've seen this film before
And I didn't like the ending.”

And now, here we are. Suddenly I looked up, and it was past 9pm here in our current October reality, and I’d gotten lost in the words again.

I should tell you this is not even what I had wanted to write about this week (my original topic was not grief related at all, I swear!) but here we are… new Taylor Swift music and the same old feelings. Of being too much, and not enough. Of missing someone you often forget even left, because they were never supposed to.

I heard someone on a podcast yesterday mention the notion that your body keeps track of the difficult seasons of your life, like when you lose someone, and subconsciously resurfaces your heartache around that relevant time of year. Almost as if it’s reprocessing, I suppose. I wholeheartedly agree. I think there’s a sort of muscle memory, or soul memory, and maybe it’s unshakeable, no matter the distance you get from that specific chapter in your life. Like the pain never really goes away (similar to how I’ve written about grief never going away — that you just grow stronger, to carry it with you). Certainly there’s also triggers, for recalling trauma or perspective-shifting pain, and… well, what can I say? It looks like Taylor Swift album releases are mine.

That’s normal, right? 🫠

But… I’ve said it once, twice, a hundred times and it’s still true: it’s OK to grieve, for a long time. Forever. Your grief can be endless, like your love, like an ocean, and it is not linear, regardless of whether you lost a person or a pet or a piece of yourself. It will pop out from behind a tree or run into you when you’re rounding a corner, and suddenly you feel like you’re back at the starting line again. You’re not, though.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

++++

Happy Friday, friends! I will indeed be listening to the Midnights album today (I didn’t end up doing so last night), possibly even when this hits your inbox. And if you want to chat T. Swift music or grief or, I don’t know, unnecessary velvet hair bows (random, I know, but I just ordered one from Etsy on a whim and am unreasonably excited about it), then drop me a line or leave a comment here. I always love to hear from you. 💛

Thanks for reading,

Joelle

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