vanessa G

Searching for comfort has been a lifelong goal of mine. A place where I could run to, hide, and feel safe. On the playground on freezing days, I'd curl into a ball with my limbs in my coat and my hood pulled all the way covering my head. I'd sit like that til I heard the bell because my coat was cozy and playing on the toys looked like torture to me. Sometimes I think about how I used to do that and am embarrassed that I would rather spend recess alone, hiding in my coat, than huddled with my friends, or raising my body temperature through good ol' exercise. But I totally see why it was something I did. I've always been more concerned about getting through uncomfortable moments as comfortably as possible.

During my pregnancy, I made a playlist with songs from my past. Songs that had awesome, sweet, happy memories tied to them and I'd play them because they didn't make me sick. They already had a place in my brain and they were considered "safe" songs. Even now, I have a few songs that make me nauseous because they were overplayed on the radio during the summer I was preggo. Anyways, doing that has kind of been the beginning of me searching for comfort in everyday objects. Things that would normally have one meaning in my brain, are now comforting.

For example. Sawyer uses wet wipes from Costco. They come in a blue package and they smell nice. We used them consistently for the first months he was home. Sometimes, I'll buy wipes from somewhere else, go through them, and realize I miss the Costco wipes because of the emotional ties I have with them. Somehow, knowing I'm using Costco wipes comforts me because it reminds me of being home with my baby.

Listening to the opening theme song to Downton Abbey reminds me of cozy nights cuddling with my husband watching episode after episode. And when he left, I'd play it as background noise because it temporarily made me feel like nothing drastic had happened, that life was the same as before and all is well.

My car was handed down to me by my dad. He gave it to us while we were in Salt Lake. It was the first car I could be in that didn't make me nauseous, because cars in general made me sick. This car smelled like pine trees and cologne. Perfection. It smells like my dad and how I could remember him growing up. I can't imagine driving another car, ever again, unless it makes me as nostalgic as this one now. Plus, it was the car we brought Sawyer home in, so I am emotionally attached to the image in my head of that particular, happy, joyous day.

Even little things, like the type of binkies we buy or the type of syringes we use, the brand of baby lotion or the routine of bath time are all imprinted in my brain as euphorically happy moments and anything else is an impostor.

Taylor's house on Redwood makes my heart swell whenever I think about it. It was where he lived while we dated, where we fell in love, where we talked about sharing the rest of our lives together. It smelled like him whenever I walked in. It had the potential to be our first home, where I imagined we'd be as newlyweds.

Salt Lake City is comforting to me. Driving on I-15 reminds me of my childhood with my family all listening to Les Miserables, and I'd try to hold back tears during "I Dreamed a Dream." It reminds me of going to Temple Square and not understanding the true beauty of temples, as I happily, blissfully sipped my hot chocolate and imagined my future husband bringing me to that exact place.

I think as I get older, I realize how important tradition is. I'm making small traditions by repeating practices and patterns that bring a sense of peace during otherwise uncomfortable times. It probably wouldn't hurt to go out and play once in a while, and I do. But there's also nothing wrong with sitting with your toddler on the couch on a rainy day, watching his new favorite show, Good Luck Charlie, just to know that he's happy and feels safe and cozy. Those are moments I wouldn't trade for anything else.