I Let Go

I Let Go
  When I thought I was going to die, grief blinded me. The grief wasn't really for myself. I’ve had a pretty good run. Reflecting on my life, it’s easy for me to see that my stroll into adulthood was leisurely. Even though my earliest years were fraught with trauma from which I thought I’d never recover, somehow, miraculously, I’ve managed to live a happy, peaceful life. In college, I studied literature — a luxurious indulgence. Even as a naive 20-year-old, I understood the extravagance of being able to sit under a tree and read, albeit in sweltering Missouri heat. I studied the world’s literary masterpieces while sweat trickled down my back, mosquitoes nipped at hard-to-reach places, and the MBA students on campus wondered what I was doing. But those books! How they kept me company. I had stacks of them and expert professors to guide me through their meaning. After college, I traveled. With $300 in my pocket, I headed to the United Kingdom, got a job as a waitress, and unfolded another series of adventures. Eventually, I met the love of my life. And against all odds, he loved me back. At one point, flying with him in a small airplane, I thought we were going down. As I watched the canopy of redwoods below us get closer to the underbelly of that Piper 180, I heard the pilot screaming, “Mayday!” into the radio. But oddly, I felt no se
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