Letting Go of My Balloon

Picture this: 

You hold in your hands the physical embodiment of childlike wonder. A thin, iridescent ribbon is practically fused to your sticky palm. A squishy, stretchy, shiny, crimson toy is magically floating above you as you proudly parade it throughout your neighborhood grocery store. Much to their parents' dismay, every child you pass begs and pleads for one of their own. An inanimate pet of sorts that faithfully follows closely behind. A childhood status symbol that proves to everyone that you have behaved well enough to deserve such an elusive reward reserved only for the most special moments and the most special kids. (In reality, your mom bought it upon entering the store to avoid one of your classic meltdowns at checkout, but your onlookers don't need to know that). Vibrant cereal boxes with anthropomorphic animal mascots whiz by in your periphery, but you can't be bothered to stop and beg for one. You have a balloon to show off. 

After parading your prize up and down every aisle in the store, the dreaded checkout time has come. Not only is grocery checkout its own brand of cruel torture, but your balloon can no longer be seen far and wide thanks to the mountainous stacks of tabloids and beef jerky closing in on either side of you. The whole process is already taking way too long, and mom won't let you sniff all the different flavors of gum on the shelves (rude). Just as you are about to release your fury, the friendly woman dragging your applesauce across the scanner looks down and reminds you of the ultimate trophy already in your possession: "Someone must have been very good to deserve such a special treat!" A smile envelops your face and your confidence skyrockets.That's right, lady. You think to yourself. I absolutely crushed this grocery trip. 

At long last, your shopping excursion has come to an end. Mom loads the last of the bags into the cart, thanks the nice lady (who has officially earned herself an invite to your 7th birthday party), and grabs your free hand so you can navigate the parking lot safely while still displaying your status symbol to all the newcomers heading into the store. Mom buckles you into the car where you ride home with your arms gingerly wrapped around the balloon. You squeeze it just tightly enough to hold it in place while being careful not to jostle it so much that it pops. This thing has to make it home so your siblings see what you've got. You stare out the window and daydream about the hours of "Keep It Up" that lie ahead.

As if they know what wonders await them, there are your siblings playing in the driveway right as mom pulls up. You beg to be let out of the car so you can brag to them immediately. Your siblings have already paused their game of H.O.R.S.E. after catching a glimpse of the latex treasure in your hands. Mom comes around the side of the car, slides open the door, unlatches you from your seat, and offers her hand to help you step outside to greet your captivated audience. Your siblings await the grand reveal with stars in their eyes. You've never walked the red carpet before, but you're pretty sure this is what it feels like.

You grasp mom's hand and gleefully hop out of the car to face your siblings. Except, suddenly, their expressions have changed. Their brows furrow. Their smiles have morphed into grimaces. Mom gasps. Before you can ask "What gives?" your siblings slowly point upwards. Your eyes follow their gesture, and you scan the immense sky above to see what could have caused such a sudden upset.

Then you see it. There, just out of reach, is a tiny red dot attached to a glimmering ribbon that belonged to you just moments ago. Your stomach falls into your ass, your throat begins to tighten, and you begin to feel the warmth of tears pooling on your eyelids. That's when it hits you: you grabbed mom's hand too quickly when you leapt out of the car and the balloon escaped your grasp. In a split second, your day has gone from helium-filled delight to utter devastation. Your palm has never felt so empty. This is way worse than being stuck in a checkout line.

Unable to control your emotions in such a trying time, you unleash your mightiest wail right there on the spot. Your family attempts to comfort you from every angle:

"We can get another one next time!"

"Want to play tag instead?!"

"How about a popsicle?"

Only you don't want a different one, or to play tag, or even a tasty frozen treat. All you want is the microscopic berry in the sky that is gradually fading into the clouds. The special gift that had practically become part of your identity. In seconds, it will be out of view completely. You will be forced to accept the fact that you now live in a world without your most prized possession as well as the confidence and sense of control that it brought to your life. You've never felt an emptiness like this before, and you hope you never will again.

We've all been that hopeless child staring at the sky watching our balloon fly away forever to its new home amongst the tree tops many miles away. Far from the sticky hands that once treasured it dearly. We've all looked to the heavens and prayed that our sweet toy would magically descend back into the safety of our arms. The harsh reality, that we couldn't have understood as children, is that there will be many more balloons to come and go in your lifetime, both literally and metaphorically.

This particular metaphor resonates with me currently as I just released the most faithful balloon of them all. The balloon of my childhood dreams. I'm talking about a giant foil one in the shape of a unicorn. It had glitter floating around inside and it played a funky tune when you bopped it. My balloon even had a weighted bag on the bottom; a false sense of security that may keep the balloon on the ground, but can't prevent it from deflating over time.

For the first time in my 29 years of life, I moved to a new state. Not just one or two states over, either. We're talking midwest to northeast. I've never lived more than three hours from where I grew up, and I have always been quite sure I never would. Most of my family lives back in that midwestern hometown, which includes my in-laws, so it made sense for my husband and I to settle there as well. Just months ago, the mere thought of moving away from my family was enough to make my stomach drop into my ass.

Not only did I have my family in my hometown, but I had my dream job as well. I was a proud English educator in the phenomenal school district that raised me. My job was secure, fulfilling, and I was surrounded by many colleagues who inspired and challenged me. I also worked with some of the most wonderful teenagers in existence who surely taught me more than I could have ever taught them. 

I learned to fly my balloon with pride as the years went on and I began to make a name for myself as a leader in my community. That familiar sense of confidence and control that came with it became consistent and reliable. Naturally, even with my ballon in hand, life was not without its significant challenges. Admittedly, my balloon began to deflate at times. Fortunately, it was never allowed to reach the floor. On my worst days, I could simply hop into my car and drive no more than 30 minutes to reach one of the countless people in my core support system. People who kept my balloon afloat by infusing it with their boundless love and support. If anyone came along to let the air out again, I had an army of loved ones ready to patch it up. I had countless safe spaces. I was secure in my routines. I knew the roads like the back of my hand, I knew where to get the best mani/pedi, and I even knew the prime time to hit up the local Trader Joe's to avoid bashing my head against the steering wheel repeatedly while trying to navigate its nightmare of a parking lot.

Alas, as my wise grandmother often reminds me, time marches on. My brilliant husband eventually reached the end of his rabbinical school journey, which was keeping us in our hometown, and there weren't any positions available that called us to stay home. It took months of reckoning, but eventually I had to accept that we would be moving away. Far away. Like, "a two hour plane ride or a 13+ hour drive" far. Once we committed to our incredible new opportunity, I knew I had to accept the conflicting truth that came with it. My balloon wouldn't make the trip.

We've been in our new home for just over three weeks now, and my retired balloon is far out of sight. It has undoubtedly found its final resting place in the treetops amidst the rest of my decades old balloon scraps... an admittedly depressing image that accurately depicts my feelings of homesickness and the longing I feel to be a part of family gatherings. To spend lazy summer afternoons on my sister's patio as the rest of the family cycles in and out for visits. To catch up with friends that I've missed during the hibernation of the school year. To spend my mornings frolicking in the sun at the day camp where I grew up and eventually became a counselor. To spend muggy evenings inside a theater making art with some unbelievably gifted kids. There is so much I miss. Sometimes I miss it all so much that I still feel the pain as deeply as the release of my first balloon. The stomach-to-ass drop, the throat tightening, the tears. Lots of tears.

What was once a devastating accident in childhood has now become a deliberate choice in adulthood. This time, much to my inner child's surprise, I cut the string from its weighted bag of my own free will. I had to watch my beloved treasure dance into the atmosphere knowing that it wasn't gone due to some cruel twist of fate, but because of a conscious decision that my husband and I made. A leap of faith in support of the future of our own family. 

What I never could have imagined in those first days of letting go of my balloon was how liberating it would be to cut it loose. To be entirely untethered. Yes, the security it offered was comforting, but now I have the chance to reimagine my life without it. As my husband begins his career as a rabbi, my career as a classroom teacher is coming to an end. At least for now. I'm transitioning from the structure and reliability of teaching to the unpredictability of a brand new schedule of my own design: I'm going to write my first book. It's a dream that I've longed to pursue for many years, but the demands of teaching simply wouldn't allow. I am terrified, excited, and extremely privileged to have the chance to take this enormous leap. Meanwhile, I plan to start tutoring in the afternoons and evenings starting this fall. Although committing to writing could easily fill my days, I've realized that my life would feel incomplete without the fulfillment of helping young adults reach their academic and personal goals.

The uncertainty of this profoundly transitional period would have once sent me into a psychological tailspin. Fortunately, soon after we arrived in our new home, I quickly learned that physical distance means nothing in regards to emotional support when you have loved ones like mine (plus an amazing therapist who offers virtual counseling). Of course, I'll continue to grieve the comfort of my glittery unicorn balloon and the sense of confidence and illusion of control that came along with it. 

At this point in my life, I've let go of enough balloons to know that the one headed for the treetops simply isn't coming back. A dismal realization, perhaps, but such experiences have also taught me that another one will come along eventually. Until then, perhaps I'll join in a game of tag or enjoy a popsicle with a loved one who has extended a hand. It may not be the solution that I wanted at first, but these loving distractions will usher me through this next phase of life until I feel confident enough to show off a squishy, stretchy, shiny new balloon once again.