The Courage to Walk Alone: A Tale of Defiance
It’s 3:30 a.m. I finish my coffee and down my water, mentally preparing for my favorite part of the day — I don’t just want to run; I need to run.
Quickly, I pull my hair away from my face and gather it into a ponytail, but then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.
In that fleeting moment, I take in every detail. I look older than I feel, and my tired eyes betray the quiet resilience within. It’s ironic; after a good night’s sleep, I usually feel ready to conquer the world.
Even after only six hours, a spark of ambition ignites within me, reminiscent of the same youthful determination that I had at 18.
If I didn’t have this reflection to remind me of my age, I might still believe I was young. But the lines on my forehead tell a story I sometimes wish to forget, each one a chapter of laughter, heartache, and the scars left behind from moments that have defined me.
As I stand there, my gaze softens, and I hear a whisper in the back of my mind — a voice that reminds me of the child I once was, the girl who believed in magic and possibility, who saw beauty in the simplest things.
There she is, hiding beneath the layers of self-doubt and expectation, longing to feel beautiful despite what the mirror reveals. She doesn’t care about the small wrinkles or gray strands; she just wants to feel seen, to be appreciated for who she is, not just how she appears.
I reflect on the paradox of my double standards…— how I often extend kindness and compassion to others, reinforcing my belief that a person’s worth is not tied to their outward appearance.
However, shouldn’t I offer the same grace to myself?
I stare with conviction into my own eyes and passionately urge myself to remember that beauty is not merely skin-deep; it is built from the accumulation of life experiences, in the lessons learned, and the many hopes and dreams that have been pursued.
Should I fix my hair, apply makeup, or challenge my body physically? The clock ticks, reminding me there is time for only one of those before I head to work.
Turning away from the mirror, I sigh and reflect on the deeper truth that lies beneath the surface. Perhaps instead of seeking validation from my reflection, I should embrace the child within me who yearns to feel beautiful, not for the world to see, but for the joy of existing authentically.
I remind myself once again that it has always been about what’s on the inside, and so, in this moment of clarity, I choose to honor the little girl who still lurks within me, to celebrate her spirit. She deserves to feel worthy and loved, regardless of what stares back at her in the looking glass.
On that note, this woman, who is still a little girl at heart, is forsaking the makeup and going on her run.
I can hear my son again. He is in the bathroom, taking a shower and having a conversation with himself.
This is something I’m used to.
For a moment, regret hits me. If only I hadn’t lost the two babies I had, Daniel wouldn’t have been alone all these years, and maybe he wouldn’t be having conversations with himself in the bathroom.
I’ve never been one to let this kind of thing concern me. There is nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend or talking to ourselves.
If I had treated it as a problem, it could have developed into one.
Besides, I sometimes carry on conversations with the universe and my mom. Some might argue that I have lost my senses by speaking out into the void or talking to someone who is no longer alive.
But this is what I do. Just like I speak “Camish” instead of cursing when I’m angry (Camish is my mom’s name for Camilla’s Spanish) instead of using Spanish, because every time I do, I know my mom hears me and shares that laugh with me that was just ours.
Often, when I feel overwhelmed, I find myself looking up at the sky at 4:45 a.m. on my way to work, wishing for an answer to all of my problems from my mom.
But more than answers, I am longing for her strength to lean on, to unburden myself from all this responsibility, and to just be little and sheltered by her just once more.
Then I get angry — angry at the universe for being so hard on me with its karma.
According to astrology and the placement of Chiron in my chart, I read that I was dependent on others in a past life, so now, in this one, I must learn to be independent.
I get it already.
I understand.
But really?
Must the universe continually bring people into my life to help me and then take them away?
Why bring them into my life in the first place?
I swear I can hear the universe’s answer: “Someone was given to you to guide you down the road you must travel. But now that you have reached that road, the only way forward to what lies ahead is to walk alone.”
This doesn’t make me feel any better.
Another tour bus full of people arrived at the store. I could hear Chad’s voice, my favorite tour bus driver, from the office.
“Good morning, ladies — and hello, Barbara! You are looking lovely as usual; I love the Fourth of July headband,” he called out.
I peeked my head out of the office and replied, “Hi, Chad! How is the baby? And how is Dad? Are YOU doing okay?”
He responded, “The baby is great, everything’s good.” I moved closer to where he was standing and searched his eyes. “Are you sure about that? You sound different today. Your voice seems like you’re doing your best to be the same peppy driver that you always are, but something’s not right. I can sense that something is different with you.”
He averted his gaze but was honest. “You could tell that, huh? What gave me away? I do feel different today. Things have been catching up to me — I’m tired.”
I told him, “Don’t ask me to notice the color of your pink shirt or someone’s purple shoes on your tour bus, because I more than likely won’t, but there are other ways that I personally happen to be observant. I could hear it in your voice before I even saw you. That’s why I came out of the office.”
He laughed and said, “Well, I am off for the next couple of days, so I’m sure I’ll catch up on some rest somehow.”
I wished him well and returned to my work.
It wasn’t until last week that I reflected on our conversation.
Visually, I am the least observant person. I have always believed that each of us tends to use one of our five senses more than the others. I rely on my auditory sense more than any other.
I can easily pick up on things with strangers, but I'm starting to feel that I am oblivious when it comes to the people I am closest to.
Why is it that I can read and feel things from a stranger so easily, yet I couldn’t see the signs that my Assistant Manager, who is also my closest friend, was going to quit?
How could I have been in a relationship with someone for 11 years and remained ignorant of the depth of their problems?
Maybe it’s my fault. I may have taken too many things for granted. Perhaps it’s because we think that since they love us, they will always be around and will never leave us.
You would think that I would have learned by now.
I vividly remember my dad telling me a story about when I was a child.
It is so vivid in my mind for two reasons: When my dad told me this story, he was crying. The second reason is that although I was a child when this story occurred, it sounds exactly like that little girl is still the same person I am today.
The story he told me goes like this:
Once upon a time, a little girl named Camilla was two years old and never wanted to walk, even though she knew how to walk perfectly.
This was a source of both frustration and love for her father. Since birth, the child had been constantly held by her father. Everywhere they went, whether to the store, to visit family, or even for a walk outside, her father always held her in his arms.
One day, while walking to the park on one of these adventures, Camilla’s father decided to put her down. He told her, “Come on, hold my hand, and you walk beside me.” Camilla was angry and refused to walk. At first, her Father did not give in, but then Camilla started to cry. He relented almost immediately once he saw her tears.
It went on like this for months. Camilla’s father tried to get her to walk alone, but always gave in to her tears, torn between his desire for independence and love for her.
Then one day, while on their way to the playground, her father stopped and put her down on the sidewalk. She started to cry, and her father said, “Your tears aren’t going to work this time. You need to walk on your own.”
Camilla threw herself on the ground, having a full-blown temper tantrum, but her father remained steadfast. He left her there and kept walking ahead. It wasn’t until Camilla almost wholly lost sight of him that she got up and began walking toward him.
Once she caught up to her dad, he said, “I am proud of you.” His pride was palpable, a testament to her growth. Still, he offered his arms, feeling a mix of pride and guilt.
But Camilla, with red and defiant eyes, looked up at him and simply said, “No.” This time, she walked ahead of her father.
My dad was emotional when he finished this story, telling me, “Did you know you never let me pick you up again after that day?”
When he shared this with me as an adult, I felt an urge to say:
Wrong or right, that is still who I am. If you hurt me, that’s it. You will regret it. Because I will show you that I don’t need you. I will show you that I can, in fact, walk alone.
This story, more than any other, shaped my understanding of independence and resilience. It reminds me that, regardless of the love and support from others, the true strength lies within ourselves.
It teaches me that we must hold onto our own hands for safety, find encouragement in our own arms, and cultivate confidence in our minds when making decisions.
Ultimately, our journey is one we walk alone, guided by our inner strength and self-belief.
I see her walking ahead, far away from me. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. The little girl walks alone, her shoulders slumped. Her eyes are red, and she feels far more tired than any six-year-old should.
I want to reach out and comfort her. I want to tell her that she is not alone and that if she just turns around, she will see someone waiting for her to run to.
But the truth is, I’m angry at that little girl. I’m angry that she keeps letting people get close to her when she should know better.
Didn’t she walk alone when her dad put her down and stopped carrying her?
Didn’t she walk alone when her mom died, and no one wanted to talk about it?
Growing up, her mom taught her to think positively, like Pollyanna, but did her outlook not change in those last few years before she died?
In the end, it wasn’t the cheerful Pollyanna quotes that I heard from my mom; it was more somber wisdom:
“Leopards don’t change their spots, and history has a tendency to repeat itself.”
Years of pain caused my momma to change.
I understood why she altered so many of her views — she had lost hope. She had lost hope in humanity.
Ultimately, she told us that family was what mattered most.
I remember times when I would choose my friends over spending time with her. “Camilla,” she would say, “remember, blood is always thicker than water.”
My mom always told me the same thing I now tell my son: “There will never be anyone in this world who will love you and support you like your mom.
Never.”
I have warned my son that moms die.
I will die too, just like my mom.
Bitterness wraps around my heart like a clenched fist.
As I watch the little girl, a profound realization washes over me. I want to be the one who heals her, to wrap my arms around her and soothe the hurt that has seeped into her very bones. But how can I guide her back to innocence when I’m acutely aware that some parts of her childhood have been lost forever?
I have searched the world for some semblance of hope, something akin to a treasure chest that has been lost at sea, only to find that it always seems just out of reach, a make believe story I have dreamed up in my imagination to embolden her with the belief that all the fairytales that she longed for do in fact exist.
I have sheltered her with words and these fantasies in hopes that, if she can escape to that other dimension, she might find solace. Yet, deep down, I know these stories are all I can promise her — fragments of magic only found in a different realm that can’t fill the void left by realities too harsh to sugarcoat.
I will always be here, watching over her from the shadows, yet I understand now that there’s no turning back. At least, not yet. If there’s hope to be found, it begins not with the child walking ahead of me, but with peeling back the layers of the woman I’ve become. I must confront my own wounds before I can begin to heal hers.
The little girl could walk alone — she learned how to do that.
And who am I to help, anyway? After all, we are one and the same.