To Be Known So Well

As I sit on the edge of my senior year of my BSW, I feel so lucky to be witnessed for my best self by those who have stayed and those who could not.

image credit to @mouldseeker on Pinterest.

It’s been warm outside, the type of weather that makes you remember how beautiful life is, despite despite despite. I sit on the precipice of the end of my junior year of college. Tomorrow I will officially be a senior in my bachelors of social work program. I can still remember the day I received an acceptance letter for school, how shocked I was that I would even be allowed in. It has been such a long road, and though I am nervous for the busy year ahead, I am so excited to come into myself as a professional, as a researcher, and as a human.

Tomorrow, I am waking up early to meet my friend for coffee and a walk on the waterfront. We were inpatient together for many months, and it’s been amazing to exist in the outside world together. I plan to wear this sage green maxi dress I just bought at Target, to take aesthetic photos near the waves, to hug her close.

For the past few months, I’ve been engaging in a daily gratitude practice. Every evening, I post a list of things I’ve been grateful for that day on my Instagram story. It inspires me to consider the good amidst the painful, to lean into the light. Lately, I’ve been documenting the little interactions: nice things people have said to me on the street, a good meal in the dining hall, a compliment from a professor.

In the song “True Blue” by the supergroup boygenius, Lucy Dacus sings, And it feels good to be known so well. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be known well. To be seen as your truest self by others, to be heard and witnessed in both the bad and the beautiful.

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I am known well by my best friend Emma, who tells me the meaning behind Gaelic holidays. This coming Friday is Beltane, and we plan to sit under the setting sun and bask in the significance of a day meant for renewal and transformation. I remember the summer solstice of 2024, how she came to visit me in the hospital when I was stuck on a two-to-one — that she urged me to celebrate, to consider letting light in rather than drowning in the darkness. She has stuck by my side for ten years, she knows me inside and out.

I am known well by my friend Katia, who I met online when we were teenagers. She is patient and reflective. When I am dissociating and unable to move or speak, she will pick up the phone and slowly help me ground — reminding me where I am and what year it is, soothingly speaking into the receiver until I feel safe enough to breathe on my own. She tells me how proud she is of me, says you have come so far. She texts me photos of the flowers, of her new haircut, of dogs she meets on the street. She is love embodied.

I am known well by my new friend Molly, who sends me research articles and explains statistics in ways that make sense. Who sends me free DBT distress tolerance worksheets and tells me I will be a wonderful clinician. Who FaceTimes me while we eat breakfast, and likes every BeReal I post. She is bold and effervescent and smart. When I close my eyes, she appears as a smile.

I am known well by Caitlin, my sister in institutional grief. Who was the only one to say to my face when I was propagating my own suffering that I needed to get my shit together. Who exchanged long chains of emails when I could not find language, who has read every bit of my writing and underlined the best parts. Who will bring me cigarettes every time I am hospitalized, even though she is trying to quit. She isn’t afraid to say fuck off or that’s wrong or be angry, and through her courage I am learning that I too am allowed to feel.

I am known well by my honorary mother, Holly, who has moved Heaven and Earth to get me the help I need. Who loves me like her daughter and welcomed me into her home when I was twenty-two and on fire. Who has stood by my side through the worst and the best, who has loved me and held me and saved me. In a sea of mothers who could not stay, she has become the one who can and will.

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And how lucky am I, to have been known well by those who have had to leave.

By Jen¹, at the hospital in Rhode Island, who sat on the floor of the seclusion room with me, her legs sprawled out. Who was exhausted by my endless fight but stuck around. Who let me lay my head on her shoulder, let me rest in the closest thing to the hug she could not give me. She was twenty-three and in school for social work. She didn’t have all of the right words, but she showed up everyday and looked me in my angry eyes.

By P.J. in the adolescent state hospital, when he sat on the floor and played eleven rounds of gin rummy with me until I felt ready to speak. Who gave me nickname after nickname and taught me what a good man looks like. He never flinched at my flailing body, he said you will grow up and be a writer. You will grow up and this will not hurt as badly as it does now.

By Betty, who wrestled me for a razor on the floor of the group home she worked at. Who made me sandwiches and said eat something. She told me, you are allowed to be a lesbian. You are allowed to like girls, when I felt like a sinner for what I could not change. She came to visit me in the hospital before I was transferred to a new facility, held my hand as I sobbed. She cared for me despite every fuck you, every missing person’s report, every emergency room trip where she typed papers for her MSW by my bedside.

By Eloise, who told me time and time again: use your words and I will listen. Who knew by the sound of my breath and the speed at which I walked when I was about to break down. Who promised to come back and always did. Who said today is a new day, and meant it. Who never made me feel like I was too much, or too far gone. She saved my life and let me hate her for it. She understood all I said through my body when I could not say it with my voice.

By Talia, who sat up with me on night shift and always allowed me to speak my truth — even when it came out messy and unpolished. Who found me sleeping in a chair in the hallway, and when I woke up crying and asked if it would ever get better, said, I know it will. Who rang in the New Year with me and said, this year is going to be different. She told me I was allowed to have my own opinions. She told me I was allowed to believe myself.

By Leo, who championed every milestone I achieved. Who read my writing and teared up. Who sat before my exhausted, nihilistic frame and said you are going to be a good social worker. Who went to the gazebo with me in the late evening and said, I am glad you are still here. He looked at me with such warmth that there are no good words to describe how it felt. He said, I hope I never see you here again, in the best way.

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And as I move through the world, I am learning to know myself well. To say, these feelings make sense. To not need others to tell me who I am or what I am allowed to feel. I am learning to say no to the people who ask too much of me. I am learning to say thank you to my resilient body. I am teaching myself a new language: one of kindness and compassion. I am staring at photos of myself as a little girl, and whispering I love you, even if nobody else did.

I am wearing dresses and refusing to hate the new weight on my limbs. I am creating playlists for different parts of me to feel heard by. I am choosing to love myself even as it feels impossible. I am so incredibly lucky to be known and to have been known. I am so grateful to have made it here today, to have survived and been transformed.

Tonight, I am listening to “Angels of the Get Through” by Andrea Gibson on repeat. Tonight, I am journaling fifteen pages and allowing myself to let it go. Tonight, I am standing under the moon and feeling witnessed within the world. Tonight, I am at home in my body. Tonight, I am in awe of how beautiful life is, despite despite despite.

1. All names of staff have been changed.