There’s something about flying out of your hometown at sunset. The gold of the light pouring into the cabin windows, slowly turning to orange then magenta and a deep crimson makes it feel ridiculous to question the fact that everything will be okay in its time. But as I watched colors cut into rectangles across the ceiling of the plane Monday, I felt a deep pang of nostalgia for the leaving, where I was going, and saying goodbyes.

Loss feels like a lot of things—knowing you have to make peace with distance but not feeling able to, watching your family grow in your absence, tearful farewells at airport doors, always feeling on the verge of tears, whether happy or sad. The feeling of loss has characterized my past year and a half; I feel like I’ve always been on the brink of leaving, teetering on the edge of contentment and questioning.

Beams of light felt like loss to me on Monday. They felt like returning to a still new, still lonely city and goodbyes that I didn’t know how to say. But if there’s one thing light has always done for me, it is to teach me to trust and learn and love it in time. It turned from loss to a reminder of what is still to be found—a peace I have yet to know, new places, memories and accomplishments and opportunities, and becoming more of myself in the finding.

I don’t know how much more loss will come in this season, but I do know that there will be beams of light for me to find along the way. And I’m looking more for them now.

light and loss