Belly button

When I graduated from college ten years ago, I struggled to find a job for a number of months.  I spent the summer temping at a police department and applying for jobs in the big city.  When I couldn't successfully land a permanent gig, I moved to the city anyway and temped for another few months.  I was thrilled to be living on my own in such a big, promising, exciting place, a home where I could be politically active, connect with other queer and brown folks, and build a life for myself based on my values and needs.  And at the same time, I was worried, stressed and feeling defeated about the fact that I hadn't yet found a stable place to work. 

The day I got the call offering me an entry-level job at a non-profit organization, I cried.  Partly, because it wasn't quite the job I wanted.  Partly, because after six months of desperately looking for a next step, I felt such relief. It wasn't perfect, but I was getting my foot in the door at an organization for which I had a lot of respect. 

My first day of work was November 10, 2002.  After I clocked out on November 11, I headed to the East Village and walked into the most punk, bad-ass tattoo parlor I could find.  And I got a belly button piercing.  Just like that.  It was the most celebratory, cathartic, semi-permanent thing I could think to do to honor the beginning of a new stage in my life.  As a typically a cautious, planning-oriented person, it was thrilling to do something that was so spontaneous and "unlike me."  I've worn the barbell piercing I got that day throughout my adulthood as a symbol, as a reminder that I am courageous and resilient, that I am living life differently than how it was expected I would, that I am willing to take risks to follow my dreams. 

Tonight, after ten solid years, I finally removed the barbell.  Over the past few days, my stretched-out belly has made the piercing site increasingly painful and irritated, and my OB told me the jewelry would eventually have to be removed for my own comfort.  I didn't think it would be a big deal.  But to be honest, the moment I held the small piece of metal in my hand, I was overcome with emotion.  It again felt like a symbolic gesture, this time, of an era of my life ending; not in a bad way, but in a significant one.

The belly is such a powerful emotional place in the human body, a place I've relied on to guide me through life's major decisions and transitions, a place from which I've taken many leaps of faith and found my grounding and trust in myself.  Tonight, I'm realizing  that our little one is now nesting in the very place where a little piece of metal once did.  And it will be in the process of raising and loving that little one that I will continue to have to find my courage and strength.