I’m not a philosopher, a sociologist, or a psychologist. I have no professional insight or education beyond my bachelor’s in creative writing to which to lash my theory, yet this thought is a real one, true to me, so I share it with you: I believe, as a culture, we’re taught to ignore our losses. To deny them air, pack up and move on. Especially those little losses, the ones we experience every day.

Don’t complain.

That’s what I hear in the cultural whisperings that move me here and there like I’m a marionette, wondering up at my gossamer strings. I can see them, but I can’t always reach them or bend them to my bidding.

Pick your self up. Keep going. It doesn’t really matter.

Stepping out of the shield of cynicism and quick burial of the things that matter, however seemingly insignificant, I look back on one of my big choices that led to a loss: moving to Boston.

I didn’t move, per se, I went to college. I’m one of those who left and didn’t return. And so I live in my adopted city, growing and changing while, in my birth state, my family does the same. We miss the little things that become the big things. The grey hair here, the soft summer night there. We remember one another into moments that existed for one, or the other, but not both: we manufacture memories.

This loss loops eternal. Funny how, until my family returned home following my graduation, I hadn’t realized I was choosing. Even if understood, I probably wouldn’t have chosen differently. I love my adopted city and I love my family. I live with the choice and the loss.

The beautiful ladies of my birth family

What are some of your small or significant choices and losses? You’re welcome to share in the comments.