Sunny Side Up

I ran into some old diner customers last night grabbing a pizza for the fam at Cozy.

I recognized them right away, though I wasn't sure if they recognized me. We've all aged. We've all weathered a bit on the outside, and what happens on the inside…well, that's largely up to us and how we choose to navigate it.

These folks were always sweet. Always smiling. Observing more than speaking. They may have even been the first couple I ever served sunny-side-up eggs to on a Sunday morning. They always came in as the sun was rising, when the diner was quiet and there was an ease about the place. Safe people.

I'm sure I served them a plate or two with tears in my eyes.

Those years held a lot. Harassment in the kitchen. Side comments as the owner walked through the door. Order up. Plates slung. Deep breath. Swallow your pride. Hold back the tears.

But sometimes the tears broke through.

Seeing them again at our local pizza spot brought all of that back. I stood waiting at the pickup window while they sat quietly at the bar, slowly chewing their dinner. I think we exchanged a smile and one of those nods of recognition that says, "I know you…or at least I knew you once."

We hold different people in our memories, and we recognize different parts of ourselves in them.

They brought me back to an older version of myself, but not the one I used to return to.

No trigger.

Just gratitude.

A reflection of the good people in the world who unknowingly hold space for us, even when things aren't the way we think they should be. People who offer kindness while we're hiding in the shadows of fear, sadness, or simply trying to make it through another shift.

I haven't written about any of this in a while, though I think about it often.

The integration that comes from years of therapy, work, life, and experience really does pay off.

There was a time I would have seen those people and run.

Not from them.

But from those parts of myself.

Today, I can smile.

I can remember.

And I can hold compassion for the woman balancing hot plates and heartbreak, trying her best to make it through the morning.

She deserved safe people, too.

And maybe that's one of the quiet gifts of healing.

Not forgetting.

Not erasing.

But no longer needing to hide from the memories—or from ourselves.