Yelling Through Time - "The Between"

 There’s this space I go to when I write. I don’t really know what else to call it except the between. It’s this hazy layer of energy where time isn’t straight anymore. The past hasn’t quite let go, and the future is already pressing through. I’m not just remembering. I’m visiting.

People talk about memory like it’s a timeline. But when I’m actually in it, it feels more like a tapestry. My twelve-year-old self, dreaming about my son by name, is happening at the exact same moment I’m watching him walk through the living room right now. From the between, I can finally pull those threads together and see the pattern. That’s where the ashes and the ink finally make sense.

But here’s the thing that actually keeps me up at night: sometimes I wonder, if I yell loud enough in my head, can I make her change course? Can I steer my younger self away from the sharp edges? Or… what if I already did? What if it worked so well that I don’t even remember yelling at her in the first place?

It sounds wild, but sit with it for a second. Those sudden gut feelings. The “I just knew I shouldn’t go in there” moments. The quiet voice that says turn left, not right. What if that’s not just intuition? What if that’s just me, decades from now, leaning through the veil and shouting? 

If the intervention actually worked, of course I wouldn’t remember the scream. The timeline where I didn’t yell wouldn’t exist anymore, to this me anyhow. It would just be… the path I took. The mercy of memory.

That’s why this whole project stopped feeling like a history book and started feeling like a conversation. I’m not just cataloging what happened. I’m talking back. When I write down the ashes, I’m honoring the fires I couldn’t stop. When I write the ink, I’m tracing the routes where I (or some version of me) actually made it through. 

They always say writing is about “finding your voice.” But what if you’re not just finding it for the readers? What if you’re finding it for the girl who needed to hear it twenty years ago?

So I keep writing. I keep leaning into that hazy layer. And I keep asking myself: when I feel that urge to reach back, is it to warn her? Or is it just to whisper, hang in there. you got this.

Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s the whole point.