Same beach, new story

I recently returned from a trip to Miami Beach, Florida, a place I swore I’d never return to. Growing up, my extended family spent decades of Passover’s there, beginning in 1985 (I think) following the death of my grandfather. Prior to that, we had spent Passover at the legendary Grossinger’s resort in the Catskills, a point of great pride for any tri state area family. Having gone to Grossinger’s takes New York mid century Judaism to the next level.
For many years, my Miami family memories were special and amazing. Having that time with my cousins was the highlight of the year for all of us. Over time, as our family began to disintegrate and turn toxic and frightening, we were forced to keep going to Miami and spend miserable holidays together. Choosing health, wellness, self respect, and boundaries, not to mention physical safety, in a deeply enmeshed and codependent family dynamic was simply not on the table. In a Holocaust surviving family, being scared and miserable yet together was the learned norm. I understand this from the perspective that there is strength in numbers. That survival tactic literally saved lives during the war. “Happiness” and emotional safety was modern frivolity, and physical safety was the goal. I don’t think a drunk uncle throwing punches and chairs would be considered physically safe, but again, compared to the horrors of the war that was nothing. Over time, as the family holidays spent together went from uncomfortable to unbearable and dangerous, my associations to this particular stretch of Miami Beach soured immensely. I vowed never to go back. The memories, for a million reasons, were too painful. The association was an utter sense of danger and defenselessness.
This year, being in the same spot that held such pain and trauma, I was able to experience Miami in a whole new way. Looking out onto the beach from my balcony, I was overcome with the liberation that comes with one rewriting their story. The possibility of us being able to flip any script is incredibly empowering and freeing. The version of me that suffered at the hands of a miserably diseased family system doesn’t exist anymore. She was laid to rest years ago. While I remember those awful times clearly, it’s as if I’m just watching a movie about someone else. There is no part of me that would ever even be a walk on in a movie like that, and I’m proud that as a mother, my children would never be subjected to that type of environment. There is no strike two when it comes to my kids, and their father has the same approach. Maybe what I went through as a defenseless child was needed to shape me into the parent I became, a parent who would not put my kids in harm’s way no matter what. I don’t believe in suffering for the sake of anyone else’s narrative, and I have carved out a life for myself that supports that. My ability to have rewritten my story, thereby creating space for new memories and feelings in the very same spot that was so traumatic, filled me with deep appreciation for both myself and for life. For possibility, for chances, for the strength it takes to reclaim one’s life.
I’m a very emotionally driven person who is extremely sentimental. I remember everything. While I hold my memories and feelings, I don’t want them to hold me. One of the goals in my spiritual practice is to be so anchored and rooted, so that I don’t get swept away by the ever changing tides of feelings and brain activity. Not tightly attaching to any particular experience affords us more ease and fluidity in this human experience. Being able to feel inwardly safe and comfortable, and open and spacious, allowed me to enjoy Miami in a whole new way. I was proud that I didn’t get dragged down by the sediment of the past, and that the healing work I’ve done over the past few years gave me fresh clay to mold.
I subscribe to a life in which I’m the creator. My happiness, as an adult, is my responsibility. My approach to life is a choice, and how I act supports that choice in either direction. I choose peace, I choose strength, I choose liberation, and I choose possibility. That’s the best part of being a grown up; I get to decide.