Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

 Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

The last post? That one was easy. This one... not so much.

This is dedicated to the one that sent me the book and my mom. ....

Today, I got a package in the mail from some very sweet friends—honestly, they might as well be family at this point. Right on top of the gracious pile of love and thoughtfulness was a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

I saw the cover and immediately started crying—not just tears, mind you. We’re talking full-blown, nose-running, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of crying. Then I opened the cover, read the inscription... and started boo-hooing loud enough that I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t pop their heads over the fence with a broom in hand like, “Ma’am, you okay?” You know I would have given them the finger and told them to fuck off because you know. I'm nice like that . 

That book. That book. I remember my mom reading it, and naturally, I had to read it too. I must’ve been barely a teenager—maybe not even quite there yet—but I still remember the words. We talked about it, me and my mom. Really talked. Gosh, I miss her.

I've read it many times over the years, and I even have a few old copies stashed away in storage. But for some reason, tonight was the first time I truly understood its core. Really felt it. Jonathan is this seagull obsessed with flight—not just flapping around for food like the rest, but perfecting the art of it. Perfecting himself. He gets kicked out of his flock, and that exile leads him on a spiritual journey. He meets others like him. And eventually, he returns—not to fit in, but to help others break free.

Lately, I’ve been having dreams—strange, beautiful ones—and they’ve been making me think hard about life. I keep waking up with this lingering feeling: This is what my life should have been. Not that I regret the path I took—I wouldn't trade my family for anything—but if I could have changed something... I would have changed ME.

When my mom died, my sisters were off at college, and it was just me and Dad. He threw himself into work—gone before sunrise, home long after dark. Eventually, my sister moved back and started commuting to college so she could help raise me. She gave up so much, and I’ll never forget that. I’m still humbled by her sacrifice. But no matter how much love there was, it just wasn’t the same.

My mom had this way of bringing out the creative spark in me. I remember one Valentine’s Day, she gave me paper and supplies to make my own cards. I didn’t want to—I wanted store-bought like the other kids. Sure enough, they laughed at mine, ripped them up in front of me. I ran home, fighting back tears. I am crying as I am writing this because I can still remember the way it made me feel. I guess  just admitted I have feelings....who knew?

Honestly, it's a wonder I ever touched paper crafts again—but now? They’re my favorite.

My mother gave me the gift of art, literature, history. She taught me about kindness and God. We watched old black-and-white movies together. She taught me how to sew and embroider before I even turned eight. I still have my first handmade doll, stitched from a mitten.

When she died, it felt like everything died with her. The world she had opened up to me—the one that felt endless and full of wonder—just... closed. No one else seemed to understand what was inside me. All those bright, swirling things in my brain? I locked them away. Because who wants to be friends with a nerd?

Back then, therapy wasn’t what it is now. If you mentioned it, people assumed you were unhinged. Nowadays, you can have a full-on breakdown and book a therapist on a lunch break like you're ordering DoorDash. But me? I stuffed everything down, deep, because that’s what you did. Later in life, I managed to get a few therapy sessions in, but money ran out before we could dig deep enough to find the roots of that inner child. (Yes, I have all those self-help books. And frankly, I hate them. It’s always some overly chipper stranger telling me how to feel. “Just let it go,” they say. Oh really, Karen? How? Through the window?).

I became what the world wanted. I followed the crowd. I masked my pain with a version of myself that didn’t feel like me. Angry. Guarded. Lost. And let’s not even start on body shaming—yes, it existed back then too. We just didn’t have Tick tac  or Snapchat to immortalize the trauma. Thank the good Lord.

I became one of the flock. I flew in circles, doing the daily grind, never quite knowing what it felt like to soar.

People love to say, “You made your choices. You could’ve done it differently.” And they’re not wrong. But I was just a kid—alone and directionless. I didn’t know which road to take.No hand to hold no guidance (Well, I always knew God was there, so let’s just leave that sacred truth right where it is.)

I tried to do differently with my daughter. I nudged her toward her dreams—and you know what? She followed them. She reached for more and got it. I always told her not to let anyone hold her back. That she was bright, strong, and capable of being anything. And I meant it—even when she came home and casually dropped, “Hey Mom, I bought a house.” (I had whiplash from that one, but proud? Oh, endlessly.)

One day she asked me, “Mom… there has to be more to life than this, right?”

I looked at her and said, “There is. You just have to find it. Priorities shift with family, but that doesn't mean you stop dreaming. The earth shifts. Stars die. And still, we go on. You’ve got to reach inside.”

And I think now… it’s time I reach inside, too.

Time to find the strength Jonathan had—to remember how to fly. Because if I don’t? I’ll regret it. I can feel the end of my dash starting to dim, and I don’t want to go out never having let those beautiful things inside me breathe.

Some days, I still feel like that little girl, holding torn paper hearts, with a head full of dreams and nowhere to put them.

But maybe… just maybe… it’s not too late to let them out. To soar. Even just a little.

me.... in my big beautiful world