This week, I spent most of the week agonizing over a very big decision. A decision between two great options. I had to make a choice between something known and beloved and something new and exciting.  It was a choice between stability in the present and sustainability in the future.  It was a choice that summoned multiple parts of my identity.

It was a very hard choice.

One that even now I am questioning.

The choice was made harder because it brought forth questions about who I really am, what I really want, and what I’m willing to compromise (and not compromise) about myself and my life.

People who deeply cared for me were going to disappointed when I made my choice.  Although I knew that they would still care for me, I felt deeply troubled by this.

I made a choice.

It was a good choice.

But I still don’t know if it was the right choice.

Part of what always makes choices hard for me is the memory of my very worst choice.  I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, the day my mother died.  I was at my best friend’s house where I had spent the night because we were going to the movies the next day. My mom and I had gotten in some petty teenager-mom argument when she dropped me off the night before.

I woke up and I thought, “I should call her before she leaves for work to tell her I’m sorry. To tell her I love her”

But I chose not to call her.  I didn’t call my mom because it was the era before cell phones.  I was at my friend’s house and didn’t want to disturb anyone.

That morning she was killed crossing the street from our house to the bus stop.

For years, I was left wondering whether that call could have saved her life.

For years, I was left wondering if she was still upset when she woke up that morning, if she was lonely and sad as she crossed the street.

I wondered if her last memory of me was that of a petulant teenager.

This was not that choice.

This was a choice between two very good things.

But every choice feels like it seals my fate, like choosing the wrong thing means there will never be another choice to be made.

I know this is irrational, but trauma does the worst things to you.  It makes you always doubt yourself even when everyone around you believes in your greatness.

It makes you cry on Valentine’s Day, the day before your son’s 14th birthday, although you should be filled with joy at the choices the universe has brought you, at the choices you have earned and created for yourself.

It makes you wonder what would have been.

Each big choice I’ve made since I was 16 years old lays bare my humanity, which is at once, the best and hardest part of me.

I made a hard choice today.