Another Star Thrower

Sometimes the universe sends us a sign. And sometimes, it sends a starfish.

This summer, my family went to the beach.

That’s a sentence I never thought I’d say again.

When I was nine years old, my family went to the beach and something terrible happened to me. Certainly, it wasn’t the only terrible thing that had ever happened, and it wasn’t the last. But after this terrible thing, nothing and no one felt safe again. For years afterwards, I pictured myself as a broken person. Not quite real. Not quite whole.

And I hated the beach.

Almost thirty years later, I am still healing from that terrible thing. As a little girl, I imagined that healing would be a simple, straightforward process. I would want to get over it, and I would. Just those two steps, and I already had the first one covered.

In reality, healing is a million tiny steps. Most of them hurt. All of them took me far away from the person I imagined I’d be and the life I thought I’d live.

Standing ankle-deep in saltwater with my own little family was another tiny, healing step. My children enjoyed the beach the way children should. Playing with their aunt and uncle. Collecting seashells. Sitting on the shoreline and letting the tide roll them gently back onto the sand.