Tag: journal

Whole.

Jessica BardLeave a comment

For the past four years, I have felt like there were two ‘me’s.’

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There was the me that always was—

the one who was quiet but kind,

overthought everything I said,

craved time alone more than company.

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The one who held more space for others’ opinions

than for my own thoughts about who I was.

–

I lacked boundaries,

yet kept everyone at a distance—

never sure how to protect myself

without shutting the world out.

–

I was exhausted and anxious,

trying to always know better,

please everyone,

be everything I thought I should be.

–

But then I moved—

to a country where nobody knew this “me.”

–

Without the weight of old expectations,

I saw myself more clearly than ever before.

–

With no familiar voices telling me who I was, 

I finally began to listen to myself.

And slowly, a new “me” began to emerge.

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The me who is brave and soft,

who speaks with intention rather than perfection.

The one who craves quality time with the people I love,

and leaves with a smile on my face.

The one who looks inward for guidance

and accepts that not everyone will like what I find there.

–

I no longer keep people at arm’s length.

I let them see me, the real me—because now, I see myself too.

–

I am still kind, and sometimes quiet,

but now with strength and purpose.

I surprise myself with my resilience.

I have found a greater love for myself,

and through this, a greater capacity for loving others, too.

–

I feel overwhelming joy—

when I do yoga in the sunshine,

cook dinner for my friends,

sip coffee with my roommates,

laugh as I practice a new language.

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I feel deep sadness, too—

when I go through a breakup,

miss my family back home,

feel lonely, or overwhelmed,

and sometimes for reasons I do not know.

–

For a long time, I believed that only the old me could exist in New York,

and the new me belonged to Israel.

As if I had to choose between them,

as if I could only be whole in one place.

–

But I see now that both have always been within me.

It was never about where I was—

it was about standing strong in who I am.

And once I did, the new me could exist anywhere.

–

When I say I have learned to love myself, 

I mean all of it.

The joyful, the sad, the excited, the heartbroken,

the strong, the fearful, the passionate—me

–

It was only once I accepted this—

that to love myself fully means one part is not more “me” than the other—

that I stopped feeling like there are two of me.

–

Wherever I am, whoever I’m with, whatever I feel—

I am whole

Because I am me.

Written by Jessica Bard.

The fear of being happy.

Jessica BardLeave a comment

“It’s everything I’ve always wanted, and now I finally have it—but I’m afraid.”

With so many years—generations, even—between us, it’s hard to believe that the very thing I’ve been grappling with recently is exactly what my grandmother just said to me through the phone.

Things in my life were going well. Like, really well…almost too well. But as every piece of my life felt like it was falling into place, how did I feel? Terrified. I was utterly terrified of being so blissfully happy.

Was I really so scared of being happy, though?

No.

I was afraid of losing it.

I thought of the times I lost people, relationships, things that seemed “too good to be true.” I thought of the times I felt blindsided or empty when they were taken from me. I thought of how much it hurts to know what it’s like to feel pure joy, excitement, and love, only to lose it in the end.

So this time, my brain wanted to protect me. It came up with all the ways everything could blow up in my face. My brain told me to keep my guard up and close myself off from being too happy. All to prevent that pain from ever reaching me again.

By predicting any future pain I might feel, my brain might think it’s protecting me. Yet, in reality, all it’s doing is forcing me to live with pain that hasn’t even happened outside of my own mind.

And yet something far more destructive is happening when my brain does this, too. It’s preventing me from fully savoring all of the beautiful, joyful, loving moments that make life worth living. 

I like to think of my life sort of like a heartbeat. Picture the highs and lows of a line on a heartbeat monitor. It shoots up high, only to drop down low, only to go back up. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. 

This visual helps me understand that as long as we feel joy, love and excitement, we will also feel sadness, heartbreak, and disappointment. The truth is that the more you open yourself up to good, the more you also risk a similar magnitude of pain. It’s simply the balance of life.

But the more we listen to the part of our brain trying to prevent the lows, the more we prevent the highs, too. And if you do that enough?

You’ll get a flat line. 

I don’t want to live a flat-lined life. The type of life where nothing ever truly penetrates some armor I’ve built around my heart; where everything feels just a little more dull. No—I want to experience every bit of joy, love and excitement the universe has to offer me, even if that means I feel the lows more deeply, too. 

Instead of focusing on the pain that I will inevitably face, I have to actively choose to focus on the highs of life.

After all—if pain is inevitable, doesn’t that mean joy is too?

So what choice do we have when our brains are telling us to run away and hide so that we never have to feel true pain? For this answer I’ll turn to another quote from my grandmother:

“Run with the good, and deal with the bad.”

In other words, we will stretch that joy, love, and excitement as far as it will reach. We will feel it deeply. We will revel in it. We will remember it. 

And it’s because of these highs that we will also have the strength to get through any sadness, heartbreak, and disappointment that might follow. When it reaches us, we will deal with it. We will survive it. We will grow from it. 

And when things start to look up–when that joy, love and excitement inevitably find us again–you bet we’re gonna run with it.

Written by Jessica Bard.

Grieving from across the world.

Jessica Bard1 Comment

October 31, 2021.

I have really struggled to write this post. No matter how many times I tried, it just didn’t feel right. I contemplated if it was because this was just too raw–maybe it was something I just shouldn’t post online–but now I know it’s because the story wasn’t complete yet. 

Something my roommate, Katie, and I first bonded over when we met back in August was our biggest fear in moving here: losing our grandparents (my grandpa, Papa, and her grandma, Mamama) and not being home for it. We both had grown up extremely close to them. We both had witnessed their battles with cancer for 10+ years, along with various other health scares and complications; yet in the last few months we saw their health decline more rapidly and severely than ever before. We both said our goodbyes in August knowing that it would probably be the last time we saw them.

Losing a grandparent is heartbreaking. Losing a grandparent while living on the other side of the world, apart from all family, hurts in a completely different way than the loss itself. It’s a very unique kind of pain in which you feel alone and so extremely far removed. Three weeks ago it became a pain I understood.

It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to hear the news that my grandpa had passed away through the phone. Not being able to physically be there with my family and no way to truly “rush home” to get there was so sad and frustrating. The worst part was that I had nobody here that understood the feelings of loss and loneliness and helplessness that accompanied a situation like this. My roommates and friends were wonderful and did their best to help, but it’s just not the same when nobody else is grieving with you. 

After pleading with the Israeli government, I got the permission I needed to change my visa to fly home for the funeral and shiva. The relief I felt when I hugged my family, the heaviness of saying goodbye to Papa at the funeral, the tears, laughs, and everything else we managed to squeeze in in between–it all felt right. This is what Papa would’ve wanted: for his family to be together.

Coming back to Israel felt weird. I was so happy and eager to return, but it almost felt like I left my grief back in New York. I felt guilty for letting myself pretend it wasn’t happening–or didn’t happen–but it’s hard not to ignore when nobody else around you is also going through it. There are no reminders other than when I talk to my family on the phone. This life for me here has never been tied to him. 

Three short weeks later, Katie got the same heartbreaking news. When she told me, it was as if I found out about Papa all over again. It hurt in my chest so deeply I could’ve sworn I was reliving that night three weeks ago. I hurt for her because I physically felt her pain. I knew exactly what she was going through. I couldn’t believe it was also happening to her, and so soon after me.

I could make an entire blog post about all the freaky similarities between Papa and Mamama, our families, and the ways in which this all unfolded. Katie and I have spent so much time in the last few days discussing all the signs and connections, but I prefer for those to stay between us. What I choose to share on the internet is the connection I finally felt here. The peace I am beginning to feel just by talking to someone who understands, and by helping my friend through something I, too, am finding my way through. 

I can’t help feeling like this is it. This is the Universe, God, the magic of Israel, Papa, and Mamama, all working together to help us find peace. To help us help each other, grieve together, and just not be alone in this. 

Sitting at the kitchen table or in our room or on the beach, talking about Papa and Mamama–we grieve together. We talk, we cry, we laugh, we sit in the discomfort of grief. Most importantly, though, we went through it–and are getting through it–together. 

—-

I send my love and condolences to Katie’s family and friends who knew and loved Mamama. Katie spoke so highly of her and their memories together, and it is clear that she will be so deeply missed by all. What a wonderful legacy she leaves behind.

❤️ May Papa and Mamama’s memories forever be a blessing. ❤️