On change, nostalgia, new + old faces + places, and moving forward amidst all the feels
After a sweltering and seemingly endless summer, the rain finally graced the Côte d’Azur with its presence, giving a little too much truth to “When it rains, it pours.” The humidity swerved from a stifling heat to a seeping chill in what felt like a split second. The sun (when it’s been out) feels like a warm blanket, but the moment you cross into the shade it’s like stepping into a refrigerator.
I’ve been offline for a while, navigating my own big transitions and trying to find some steadiness as the seasons shift and my life plans take an unexpected yet necessary turn (but when has one ever had 100% control over one’s life plans?!).
I find myself missing things about the past, and missing things in the future that haven’t even happened yet because of my premonitions of what will happen next—even though premonitions are undoubtedly uncertain.
I’m nostalgic for things that still exist: friends and a place I haven’t even left yet, but will soon be leaving. I’m grieving things that never came to fruition: things that might have happened if I’d made different decisions. I grieve and am weirdly nostalgic for a life I was sure I would have by now, but the Universe took me on a detour (I’m not sure if I’ll ever get “there,” and “there” might change completely for all I know).
None of this is a problem, by the way—my life is beautiful and privileged, and the detours have all turned out to be special in their own ways. But if I get lost in the nostalgia and grief of transition, an unnecessary problem likely emulsifies…
Adapting
Adapting is a skill I developed when I moved from Southern to Northern California at the sensitive age of 13, when life already feels HaRd. As fate would have it, just when I thought I couldn’t survive in my new home, I met wonderful friends who felt like family—without losing touch with my old friends, too.
This proved to me that different forms of family would always stay with me (especially, thankfully, my immediate family). It showed me that I could build a meaningful community anywhere—which I was fortunate enough to do during university and grad school, throughout my 8+ years NYC, and in Paris and Nice.
These communities took different shapes and sizes in different places, but the people within them have stuck with me—as meaningful people tend to do, wherever you end up and whatever you end up doing (or not doing…).
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as I prepare to transition again—to a place more unfamiliar to me than the others I’ve since moved to, and onto a path more unfamiliar than other paths I’ve since chosen.
Sometimes the grief and nostalgia feel so heavy they could smush me deep into the soggy Mediterranean soil, but eventually I crawl out of the muck and continue to build the muscle of shifting perspective so as to not get completely lost in transition.
Longing + Loving
I remind myself that missing people is such an honor, because it’s a sign I’ve experienced great love in my life (and love is really all there is in the end, no?).
And being nostalgic for one of my various past lives within this lifetime means I’ve experienced great joy and magic—proof that joy and magic can happen anywhere, even if it looks different than it did in past places.
But still, the people are where the pang of longing feels sharpest for me—maybe because human connection feels as imperative as the breath or a nourishing meal as of late. And this is also precisely the point where I know I can pivot from longing to loving; from heartbreak to appreciation; from needing relationships to stay as they are to giving thanks for and cherishing all that we had when we had it.
I can embrace both the old and the new. Old friends and faces bring a familiar sense of coziness and ease. New friends and faces feel like an unexpected gift—like finding money hiding in your pocket, a stranger offering you a seat on public transportation when you really need it, or a customer service representative being extraordinarily helpful when you were on the cusp of losing your shit.
This nuanced embrace of past and future made me realize that, at some point, all of us have likely been a new friend or face for someone who really needed it, too. We all mean something to one another. We all matter. We’re all learning from each other (even if those lessons are teenage-style HaRd). In some way or another—in the words of Ram Dass—we’re all truly just “walking each other home.”
People + places
Even though I’ll meet new friends and faces in the next iteration of myself and my life, I’ll never forget the ones who overflowed my cup in the places I’ve had the pleasure of living—most recently Nice—whether sincere friendships or occasional acquaintances:
The friendly employees at my bio supermarkets and favorite boulangerie who always asked how my wrist was healing after I broke it last year. My ice cream guy (yes, I had an ice cream guy) who saw me in a sling during non-ice cream season and wanted to know what happened when I came by for a cup of pistacchio a few months later.
The kinesiologist who geeked out over the same wellness stuff I devoured, and let me cry on her massage table during my rough patch. The other kiné who not only helped me tremendously with his own unique methods, but reminded me so much of my Italian grandpa in his manner and features it felt a bit like being with him again.
The friend I danced alongside for a goofy local gig who quickly felt like I’d known her for years, even though we’d only spent a few rehearsals together (an ode to shared activities!), and who I later witnessed get hitched as the sun rose over the sea.
The like-minded friend I met at a business meetup who hustled to be by my side during a moment of severe shock. And her friend who became my own fast-friend, whisked me to Italy for a day, and had me over for ratatouille during that funky phase.
The students who brightened my day with their smiles; who told me about their vacations and families; who brought me lemons from their trees and clippings for me to repot; whom I occasionally happily crossed paths with on the Prom.
The neighbors who pushed my buttons (bless them) and the ones who watered my plants. The friends who let me crash on spare beds and couches when I bounced between living situations.
The meet-cutes I’ve had with friends in the aisles of Biocoop in both Paris and Nice could be a running bit by now (and I hope the bit will carry on).
The childhood and high school friends from my SoCal-to-NorCal transition who still make me laugh myself silly and offer support from afar. The university friends who shared childhood friends with one another and who I still adore. The NYC friends who helped shape some of the most pivotal periods of my life. The Paris friends who welcomed me in like a big bear-hug. The few but mighty Nice friends who shared adventures, coffee dates, seaside strolls, and deep chats on the pebbly beach.
The apartment that I knew wasn’t forever, but will forever leave an impression on me: the bright south-facing windows, the insanity of the squawking seagulls (truly mind-blowing), the balcony and its sweet lil’ garden, the corner of the couch I always slammed my pinkie toe into, the kitchen I could navigate with my eyes closed.
The seaside sunrise walks I’d take during the winter and sunset strolls I’d take during the summer—and the people I’d pass along the way. The unforgettable Alpine adventures that both challenged and invigorated me. The Mediterranean saltwater that held me as I laughed, cried, inquired, stared in awe, and gave thanks.
Holding on + letting go
It yanks at my heart strings to let go of these memories and people, but I’d better learn, because what is life if not one big transition? One big reckoning with the past and welcoming in of the future. One big opportunity to live in the present moment. One big lesson repeated over and over again until we get the memo and carry on to another lesson—and so on.
And if I don’t learn how to process and regulate them, this chronic nostalgia and these big dips of grief I’ve been squirreling through will only make transitions stickier.
Because whether I’m the one who stays or the one who leaves, there will always be new friends and faces who might enhance my life in ways I can’t yet even imagine—just like the old friends and faces who have surprised and delighted me in the past.
So I guess I’m holding on to everything and everyone with a looser grip (or trying, anyways), so that I never forget them (how could I?); so that we can all keep going on our merry way, learning what we need to learn, and crossing paths with whomever and whatever we’re meant to encounter for whatever reason.
It’s a cheeseball reference, but it reminds me of the song “For Good” from Wicked (you can take the girl out of musical theater…) where Glinda sings to Elphaba that people come into our lives for a reason, that they help us grow if we let them (and vice versa), and that knowing someone can change us for good. *Single tear.*
In that sense, I guess I’m never really as lost in transition as I feel, because a new face always eventually comes along to help guide me and help me grow, even if briefly—and maybe I do the same for them in some way, too. And I do believe that some type of higher power is always guiding us—which essentially comes from within us.
The most important thing to re-remind myself is that I can create an anchor within me, because I’m the one who’s always with myself through these transitions anyway. I better get used to my own company as I cherish the company of others along the way.
Even if I feel two things at once—and both feel true—I also have to remember that these dualities are normal. I can be devastated to leave these people and places, but excited for a new chapter. Distraught to depart from some familiar things, but ready for other things to change. Uncertain if my choices are the “right” ones, but certain that something needs to shift somehow—and that things will shift regardless.
Onward
I could do as the Wellness Writers do and leave you with a bulleted list of “How Not To Get Lost In Transition”—and maybe one day I will, because Lordy knows I’ve been through enough transitions at this point to have a hefty toolkit handy.
But even amidst my grounding mind-body wellbeing tools, I’ve felt so turned around in the past 6 months that I haven’t had the wherewithal to share online.
Not all things need to be shared with the public in real-time—some things need to be experienced and worked through before they’re published, and some things don’t need to be shared at all. As much as I value open forums to share with and learn from one another, I also value personal space (I guess its called “personal growth” for a reason).
But! I do still value insight and support from others, and I still want to offer virtual support however I can. So here are a few tools to help support you in your own transitions—for what it’s worth:
When your wellness tools go out the window, your foundation can help you [re]build
A Meditation for Anxious Minds
Contraction + Expansion: a yoga class to move through dualities
On Anxiety Relief & Tools That Supported Me
On Showing Up for Each Other (We Must!)
A Steady Base → Expansion & Exploration (Yoga & Beyond)
All this said, I plan to be back on Substack and social media in the near future to share and support online more regularly. In the meantime, I’m still teaching yoga and health coaching virtually and in person, and working through these transition kinks in the best ways I know how: using time-tested tools that have nourished me thus far, tabling tools that aren’t cutting it right now, and picking up new tools along the way.
Voilà, onward we go—individually and collectively, old friends and new friends and the friends we have yet to meet.
What or who helps you feel grounded vs. lost in transition?
Who and what has stuck with you along the way?
(P.S. Lost In Translation is a great film.)
Take good care of yourselves and each other,
S
