Every Thursday I walk up and down the same staircase about four times. Every Thursday I walk from the second floor to the fourth, then back down to the second, then back up to the fourth, and back down to the second a final time. In between all of these treks, I am ascending and descending other stairs to other classes which all take place in the basement of another building.
When I wear heels, it hurts. I don't work out, or run, or exercise, or stretch and the burn in my calves hurts my heart four times a day, every Thursday. It doesn't feel like motivation; it feels like what Cosmopolitan insists motivation feels like.
When I wear skirts, I grip their hems so tightly that I am afraid of stretching the fabric. But I am more afraid of curious eyes than I am of torn seams so I take the risk, every Thursday. And every Thursday I am confronted with the reality that I do, in fact, wear the cuter panties on the days when I wear the skirts because, if those eyes do exist, then I know what I'd rather have them see.
When I "forget" to eat, I am reminded by the vignette around my vision as soon as I reach the fourth floor. Every Thursday, first at 1:10 p.m and then again at 4:10 p.m, I have to watch my breath and focus on staying alert until I am able, and willing, to find food. This feels like a different kind of motivation, one not officially endorsed by any women's magazine.
Last Thursday, I was climbing those stairs as I do every Thursday and had all of those anxieties disrupted by an indescribable scent combing through my hair.
I can't tell you how it smelled, but I can tell you that it smelled familiar. And that familiarity transported me. I was diachronically situated somewhere else, somewhere a year ago, and suddenly I remembered that my birthday was in about forty hours.
The smell took me back to that time last year, when I was limping up those same stairs on my birthday to take a nap on the Queer Student Union's couch before my next class. I woke up to my friends, most of whom I'd only known for a month, presenting me with a store-bought pound cake and a rolled up piece of flaming paper stuck in it because no one could find a candle. I turned eighteen surrounded by the most compassionate people I barely knew at the time, who didn't care that something as simple as climbing stairs can completely rock my sense of self every once in a while.
When I reached the fourth floor today, malnourished and exhausted, I remembered that every year is like a Thursday and that living, and choosing to continue living day after day, is a lot like climbing stairs. It can remind you of your shames, your insecurities, your fears. It can make you question why you haven't decided to quit. But you always get where you need to go, and once you're finished obsessing over the mistakes you made along the way, you can start looking ahead to better days and better Thursdays. You can start working on fixing those mistakes. You can start planning how to make each Thursday suck a little bit less. You can start hoping to climb higher than the fourth floor.
I'm turning nineteen and I've been climbing staircases my whole life. On the days when my feet hurt, my face flushes, and my stomach rumbles, I want to stop climbing. It would be so easy.
But, on the days when the sound of my own footsteps fills me with confidence and my long legs get me where I need to go, and I make dinner plans with friends, I look forward to the next flight of stairs. I know they will bring me to greater things.
All I have to do is keep climbing.
