My Family

It was another one of Zinnia’s regularlyscheduled existential crises. Like clockwork, they came around every few months: She’d wake up mid-afternoon, and decide that the rest of the day was wasted. Before she knew it, the rest of the week had flown by too.

While Zinnia could usually predict these low periods, she never could foresee their end. When she could muster the motivation, Zinnia would dip her toes into self-care; She’d clean the apartment a bit at a time, or make a good meal.

Today, she crawled out of bed around 4 p.m., looked at her bookshelf and felt that familiar twinge of self-preserving motivation. The weather was nice enough, so she grabbed her new paperback and headed to the park before she could change her mind.

It didn’t matter that she was still in her decade-old Hello Kitty pajamas, it wasn’t like she going to talk to anyone.

Zinnia wouldn’t call herself antisocial, but she definitely wasn’t an extrovert. She wouldn’t avoid conversation with a stranger, per se, but she also never actively sought it. This is why she didn’t outwardly twitch when a tall, sun-aged woman sat a bit too close to her on the park bench. “I used to love that book,” the kind-eyed stranger said.

“Used to?” Zinnia responded.

“I don’t have much time for reading these days. I don’t miss it too much until I remember titles like that.”

“I’m Zinnia,” Zinnia volunteered only because she wanted the stranger to do the same.

“Oh, how beautiful,” the stranger exclaimed. “It suits you.”

Compliments always made her uncomfortable, especially when they came from someone she didn’t know. But this was different, this woman’s face was welcoming, almost familiar. Zinnia smiled.

“I go by Sunny,” the stranger finally offered.

“Nice to meet you,” Zinnia said.

The stranger didn’t say anything but continued to smile warmly at Zinnia.

To break the silence, Zinnia said, “My mom named me after her favorite flower. We never had a garden, but she’d paint them to hang in our apartment.”

“What a lovely story! We have the most beautiful garden at my family home. It’s just across the park.”

Zinnia has always appreciated flowers, but her liking became a strong passion after her mom died two years ago.

It was almost sundown and getting chilly, but Zinnia was enjoying herself and her conversation with this maternal stranger.

“I haven’t been in charge of tending the garden since level two, but I do believe we have some zinnias planted in the back,” Sunny beamed. “You should come to visit sometime!”

Zinnia flinched slightly at the invitation and ignored her urge to ask what level two is. Every time she was among flowers she felt close to her mom.

“I’d love that,” Zinnia replied.

Sunny’s already warm face brightened.

“That’s excellent news! It’s too dark for you to appreciate them now, but how about tomorrow morning?” she asked. “I’m sure my family would love to welcome you for breakfast.”

It wasn’t often Zinnia had a convincing reason to get out of bed, especially not recently. It was even less often that she’d do anything to push herself out of her comfort zone. Not to mention, she loves breakfast food if she can wake up in time for it.

“Ok, sure,” Zinnia agreed. “What time?”

“Is nine too early?”

Zinnia felt like she could be honest with Sunny, and nodded before she could think about it.

Sunny laughed and said, “Ok, let’s call it 10:30, then.” - - - - - -

As Zinnia approached the address Sunny gave her, she could have sworn she was lost. If the address was correct, she was walking onto a farm in the middle of a residential neighborhood in suburbia.

She stopped to check the address on her phone, and before she could take another step she heard Sunny.

“Good morning, my flower!”

Zinnia looked up at her new friend.

“This is your family home?” she said in disbelief. “This is a whole compound.”

Sunny laughed and squeezed Zinnia’s shoulder.

“You’re beautiful and funny this property has been in the family for generations, the city built this neighborhood around us over our father’s dead body. Literally.”

Zinnia didn’t know what to say. She was certainly intrigued.

“All that just to say we have earned our place here,” Sunny said. “Come on, beautiful girl.”

As Sunny led her past a big red barn and countless flower and vegetable beds, Zinnia felt transported to the countryside. She had never been out of the city before but always dreamt of leaving.

They approached a group of people chuckling as they served themselves buffet style: There was sausage, bacon, waffles, and every breakfast food you could think of.

Sunny whistled to get everyone’s attention.

“Hey everyone! This is our new friend Zinnia,” she announced. “Please give her your warmest welcome.”

This was definitely an odd experience for Zinnia – but then, she hadn’t ever really experienced much.

“Um hello,” Zinnia said hesitantly as she shoved her hands in deep into her pockets.

As she and Sunny began to make their plates, Zinnia learned the 16 names and fac-

es of Sunny’s family.

Up until this point, Zinnia assumed that Sunny had been referring to her biological family. But meeting them made her reconsider what family really meant. Maybe, you really could choose your own. Since she lost her mom she had been searching for a family of her own: A chosen family. - - - -

- -

Breakfast was delicious and Zinnia was stuffed. A good meal has always been the way to her heart.

“Do you do this for breakfast every morning?” Zinnia asked the table.

“Pretty much,” the man she learned was called Baron said. “We’ve got to put our hens’ eggs and the meat of our pigs to use.”

“The waffles are Ida’s handiwork” Sunny chimed in and gestured to the oldest woman of the group.

“We usually eat earlier but Sunny insisted we wait for you,” Ida said.

Zinnia was more enchanted than insulted. Farm living had always been a distant fantasy to Zinnia. It represented everything she longed for: Tending to a garden, a closeknit community, sustainability and somewhere other than a concrete apartment to call home.

Sunny cleared her throat, “Would you like to stay here for a few days?”

It was like she read Zinnia’s mind. In any other circumstance, Zinnia would have been skeptical but Sunny, her family and their land have been more welcoming than Zinnia’s father and distant relatives have ever been.

“I’d love to,” Zinnia said. “I’ll have to go home to pack a bag. And where should I 16

park my car?”

“Oh, you think too much beautiful girl,” Ida said. - - - - - -

The first night at Sunny’s home was a sleepless one. Come bedtime, Zinnia was sent to one of the four cabins on the property. When she opened the door she saw the other youngest women who were at breakfast.

They introduced themselves and Zinnia felt at home immediately. She was bunking with 4 other girls: Daisy, Rose, Lilly, and Azealia.

Zinnia guessed that Rose was in her late twenties but she snored like an octogenarian. But it wasn’t the noise that kept Zinnia awake.

The cabins wrapped around the open space where they had breakfast, and in the middle was a stadium light. None of the windows in the cabin had curtains so the light shone into every corner of the bunk room. None of the other girls seemed to mind.

After the longest night, Zinnia could not have been more ready to hop out of bed when the roosters called at sunrise.

She didn’t know where to go or what to

do so she wandered out to the barn. Sunny was collecting eggs from the coop and greeted Zinnia with her usual warm smile.

“Baron will be up soon, won’t you help me start breakfast?” Sunny asked.

Zinnia reached for the basket of eggs and Sunny led her to the milk cow pens.

“Would you hand me that bucket?” Sunny asked as she sat down and rubbed the cow’s belly.

As Sunny started to milk the cow, Zinnia blurted, “What’s with the bright light?”

“Oh,” Sunny said, “Baron says it is to deter animals.”

“But we’re in the suburbs.”

“Beautiful girl, the suburbs were built on nature,” Sunny said with a sad smile. - - - -

Before she knew it, Zinnia had been on the farm a week and a half. She woke up in the brightly lit cabin after a good night’s sleep and the sweetest dreams.

At her old home, Zinnia lived alone. She thought she liked to be alone until she came here.

“Good morning Daisy, Good morning Rose, Good morning Lily, Good morning Azaelia.” Zinnia yawned as she stretched her arms.

“Good morning Zinnia,” they said in unison.

She had gotten used to mornings like these. But today was different. - - - -

- -

“Do you ever talk to your dad?” Sunny asked at breakfast.

“Not often,” Zinnia said. “I talk to him once every few weeks or so.”

“You need to cut ties with him.”

“Um, well, ties are sort of already cut, we basically just check in with each other because we both feel like we have to,” Zinnia explained.

“Well, you don’t. Have to, I mean.” Sunny said.

“I guess not,” Zinnia said. “But it feels good to at least know someone is out there thinking about you, no matter who they are.”

“You have us now. We are your family,” Sunny said. “You don’t need him.”

Zinnia agreed. She hadn’t ever felt a sense of belonging like this, certainly not from her family and so-called friends at home.

“Here we believe the family we choose for ourselves is the most important thing,” Sunny said. “Everything else comes in second place.”

This was foreign but appealing to Zinnia. Her biological family had never been anything to brag about. When her mom was alive, she and Zinnia’s father fought constantly. It wasn’t rare for Zinnia to wish she was anywhere but their too-small city apartment.

For the first time, Zinnia felt at home.

“You are my family,” Zinnia agreed.

“Never forget it,” Sunny said.

“The mean reds are horrible: Suddenly, you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Don’t you ever get that feeling?”

“Sure.”

“Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany’s. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it: Nothing very bad could happen to you there.” – Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

I don’t really know when my worries about death began, but I can tell you this: My mom’s started with a sudden onset of anaphylaxis.

It’s a story I’ve been told my whole life. One minute, I was blissfully enjoying my infancy, the next my throat was closing up. Thankfully, it happened before I could comprehend much of anything, before I had any awareness of my own breathing.

My mom, on the other hand – well, this was just the beginning of her hyperfixation on my respiratory system.

And that’s normal, I think, an irrational preoccupation that any parent would have after their child’s neardeath experience. Except in her case, life reaffirmed that it was rational, to some degree, when a severe asthma attack sent my brother to the hospital four years later.

After this, my mom stayed up with me every time I got sick – she would lay awake beside me in bed for as long as she could, watching as I drew out each and every breath.

“Does your chest feel tight?” she’d ask me.

Sometimes it did, especially as I got older and the reality of everything that could possibly lead to my untimely demise started to settle in. Like Holly Golightly, I’d get the mean reds, only I knew what I was afraid of: Accidental chemical inhalation, forgetting to take that tampon out, the sudden onset of some rare and deadly disease.

So, when I felt that shortness of breath return at 19 years old, there was only one discernibly obvious explanation: Lung collapse. 18

My two roommates laughed off the theory, but nonetheless drove me to the nearest emergency room. There, a very obviously annoyed nurse conjectured that I had a generalized anxiety disorder and needed to stop drinking tequila (I would like to state, for the record, that I had not consumed any prior to the visit – I think this was projection).

But it’s a common reaction, isn’t it? Women are constantly told that it’s all in our heads, that we’ve allowed emotion to overcome rational thought. That nurse didn’t run a single test before telling me that all I had was anxiety: He gave me five minutes of time to plead my case before dismissing it.

I wish I could tell you that my Great Lung Collapse Odyssey of 2020 ended there, but I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t persistent in my pursuit of medical treatment.

It was at my second urgent care that I met the nurse that fundamentally reframed my understanding of what it means to suffer from anxiety. I unfortunately cannot recall her name, which is probably a bit terrible of me, but I digress.

“You just need someone to listen to you,” she told me. “To tell you that you’re going to be okay.”

We talked for a long time after that: She validated my pain, even if it wasn’t actually physical, and convinced me not to have them run a bunch of costly and, let’s face it, unnecessary lung tests. Most importantly, she took me seriously – it’s like this oft-quoted (and unfortunately reclaimed by TikTok) line from the Deathly Hallows:

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

It’s easy to dismiss feelings when you aren’t the one that’s struggling to explain yourself through an unrelenting tightness in your chest. I even do it to myself, when some time has passed – nothing ever feels real in the retrospective. It was a waste; Precious minutes, hours, sometimes even days lost worrying about something that never existed.

Only, it does exist. It’s like that nurse told me, and like that quote: Pain shouldn’t be dismissed because its cause isn’t physiological. The reality of its existence isn’t predicated on its origin – it can still be felt, even if it is in your head.

What I’ve come to realize is that anxiety manifests differently in all of us. For me, the thoughts in my mind are tied very viscerally to what I feel in my body: When I’m anxious, it’s a physical sensation. That feeling spreads through my arms, my chest, my stomach and head. I get dizzy, nauseous, I struggle to breathe. Worst of all, I’m afraid, and that fear feeds the never-ending spiral in my mind.

When I’m most aggrieved by these thoughts, I’ve turned to the internet, a space that’s been both good and bad.

The internet will tell you that there are two ways in which people cope with medical anxiety: Either by seeking out professional care or avoiding it entirely. I did the former for a long time. I found my Tiffany’s in the assurance of doctors, nurses, anyone that I believed in enough to affirm my continued sustenance. Like Holly, I found a hiding place from the mean reds in their care.

I think it’s really easy to dismiss health-related anxiety as something to be laughed at: Media likes to do it, friends, family. Hell, I used to laugh at it myself. It is, after all, a hard problem to admit that you have, and an even harder one for which to find coping mechanisms.

Before I got to college, I didn’t understand what taking care of yourself meant. Then, suddenly I was here and that phrase was everywhere – in emails from the school, stamped all over my syllabi, in brightly colored infographics on social media. “Take care of yourself,” they screamed at me in aggressive but cutesy all-cap fonts.

I didn’t buy into it at all at first, mostly because I just didn’t understand what the phrase meant. I take care of myself every day. I get up, I feed myself, get dressed for work, pay my own bills. Like a lot of other students, I am taking care of myself.

And like many women, I feel responsible: For myself, for the people around me, for the improvement of some greater condition that is far from my control. And again, like many individuals, both male and female, I compartmentalize the stress that accompanies this sense of responsibility until I hit a wall and can no longer keep going.

In my case, it’s always felt easier to search for an alternative answer to why I’m feeling the way I am than to admit that I might actually just be tired, stressed out, or overwhelmed. I also find myself diverting stress from other areas of my life over to these mystery ailments, latching on to them as a reasonable excuse to slow down. “I can’t keep going if I’m sick” – sometimes this feels like the only acceptable answer.

What I’ve come to realize about these moments is this: They come to me when I am my most drained, when my body cannot physically tolerate any more stress. Anxiety strikes at your most vulnerable points, when you’ve neglected your self care and left yourself defenseless. It’s hard for me to stop, to admit that I can no longer take care of myself.

So, yes, the pain isn’t exaggerated or hysterical or fake. It’s not because of drinking too much tequila. It’s the crushing pain of struggling against the weight of a burden you can no longer carry, of trying to stand as it holds you down. And that’s about as real as it gets.