Elena

“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“Excited!” she replied.
“Could you describe this feeling?”
“I feel it in my gut. It makes me happy and makes me smile. But it also brings a little nervousness about the unknown.”

“What does happiness mean to you?”
“Being at peace with yourself and truly accepting your life situation.”

“Is there something you feel is missing in your life?”
“Yes, peace with myself. I struggle a lot mentally.”
“What are those struggles?”
“I have depression and anxiety… and I used to be anorexic.”

“Would it be fair to say that you don’t accept your depression and anxiety?”
“That’s a good question. I’m not sure. They’ve been part of me for so long. Even though I don’t want them to define me, they still feel like a part of who I am.”
“How do depression and anxiety define you?”
“Sometimes I let them make decisions for me. Like not leaving the house, avoiding people, and sticking to familiar comforts.”
“Yet, you left your comfort zone to come here. And it’s you who is sitting here now, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But I think it’s because I don’t really know who Elena is. It feels easier to identify with something I do know—like anxiety and depression.”

“Do you feel depressed and anxious at the moment?”
“Yes.”
“Could you describe it?”
“Depression feels like a hole, an abyss—like hopelessness.”
“Could an abyss or hopelessness ever feel peaceful?”
“It could, in a way. But it becomes unsatisfactory when there’s too much of it.”
“What does ‘too much’ mean?”
“When the abyss is all there is, and I become just a body that breathes.”
“And what’s unsatisfactory about that?”
“Hmm… I guess it’s because I want some grounding in reality—like being financially independent from my parents. I want to accomplish things, to enjoy life, and not just exist as a breathing body.”

“Why do you want to be independent from your parents?”
“Because then I’d feel like my decisions aren’t tethered to them.”
“May I offer the perspective of being grateful for that tether while it lasts?”
“But they want me to be untethered because they can’t support me forever.”
“All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I want to, I really do. But there’s this voice in my head saying, ‘It’s going to be over soon, you need to figure it out.’ I agree with you, but it’s hard for me to silence that voice and just enjoy the moment.”

“Is there something else you can’t accept?”
“In myself or in the world?”
“I see no difference. Do you feel separate from the world?”
“Yes, I do. I often feel like I don’t fit in, like I don’t belong to any community. I have my family, but part of me wants to find a community outside of them.”
“What would make that different from having a family?”
“It would be something I find for myself, because I didn’t choose my family.”
“When you say ‘myself,’ it sounds like you know what that is. But earlier, you said you don’t know who Elena is.”
“You’re right. Maybe that’s exactly why I can’t find a community.”
“And what if I tell you it’s impossible to find yourself, because there is no self?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Thinking about it now, maybe there really is no such thing.”

“I like the idea that the self isn’t a noun, but a verb—always changing. It means we can never fully figure ourselves out.”
“Then the question is, can I accept that I’m always changing? I think that’s where I struggle. I’m obsessed with finding something to hold on to, something stable, and I can’t seem to accept that I’ll never find it.”
“Why is it so important for you to hold on to something unchanging?”
“Because it feels comforting. Safe.”
“And yet, change is the only constant in life.”
“I know. But we still need something—benchmarks, relationships, something to hold on to.”

“Sometimes we feel like we have no friends, and other times we feel we do. We can feel connected or disconnected from the world, but it often comes down to perspective, to attitude.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple. For me, something has to actually happen for those feelings to shift. Feelings aren’t just in our minds—they have a physicality to them.”
“You mean you have to experience something to truly understand it?”
“Yeah, exactly. That’s why the body is so fascinating. Without it, we’d just be souls without any physical experience.”
“The feeling of separateness often comes from the idea that we’re imprisoned in our bodies. But when I realized that my body isn’t a cage—that it’s in constant conversation with the environment—I stopped feeling so separate.”
“I see what you mean, but for me, just accepting that I’m connected to the world in a non-bodily way doesn’t feel fulfilling. Maybe it’s because I was raised in the US, in such an individualistic culture. It’s always about me, me, me—not about becoming one with nature. That doesn’t mean I have to live that way, but I’ve been influenced by it. Maybe that’s why I’m still searching for myself.”

“What does connectedness mean to you?”
“For me, it has to be personal, intimate—not just with a crowd, but with people. That’s not to discount nature. I deeply value it, and I think we do a terrible job of appreciating it. But for me, nature isn’t above or more important than humans.”
“I’d suggest that perhaps you’ve underestimated nature. We breathe far more often than we communicate with people. The plants around you inhale the air you exhale, and you inhale the air they exhale. Without plants and their oxygen-producing abilities, life on Earth as we know it wouldn’t exist.”
“We could live in harmony with nature, but plants can’t talk to me.”
“Well, they do talk—but not in English. Do you know this plant?” I reached for a shameplant on the shelf and placed it in front of her.
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Touch its leaves gently.”
She touched the leaves, and they folded and drooped. “Oh, it closes up, like an oyster. That’s so beautiful!” The leaves slowly reopened.