Life Chapters, 2024
#MiniMemoirs #InspiringStories #PersonalGrowth #LifeLessons #Storytelling #Reflections #SelfDiscovery #InspirationEveryday #Resilience #Trauma
Applause exploded, echoing through the darkened hall. The lights flashed, glinting off confetti drifting down like slow-motion shrapnel. Laughter shot through the murmur of voices. The floorboards thundered under the stampede of feet exiting into the lobby for intermission.
I tried to move, but the cold metal armrests dug into my sides like restraints. Crowds clogged the aisles, blocking the exits. The entr’acte music was little more than a tinny ringing in my ears, and the bright house lights felt like a sudden interrogation. Blood pounded behind my temples while an icy frost of fear ran down my spine, freezing me in place.
Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe.
But I was no longer in control. Panic rose. My chest tightened. My throat closed. I was here, but I wasn’t. Not really. I was being hunted in Iraq.
The phone line had gone dead. I still heard the words echoing, the speaker’s voice cold and direct: “They know where you live. They know where you work. You need to leave—now.” I’d fled in the dead of night, carrying nothing but terror.
The trauma woke me at 4 a.m. most nights. It brought tears at random: at the dinner table, in the checkout line at the store. Now, it forced me out of my seat, running blindly against the crowd returning from intermission. I found a dark corner in the lobby, curling up as Act Two echoed through the speakers, my vision blurred with tears.
Darkness was everywhere in those early months after my unexpected return to the US — from the night terrors to the tears in the theatre lobby to the therapist’s office. In that first meeting with Dr. Chris, I sat in the darkest corner of the room, wedged into a corner of the cracked leather sofa with a straight-shot view of the exit. The air was heavy with silence.
“I guess I’ll start,” I said, my voice already strained. “It’s like, my whole life used to be this rich and colorful tapestry. Friends, work, achievements, memories… all held together.”
Dr. Chris nodded, really listening.
My arms, once tightly drawn in, began to unfurl, fingertips brushing the seams of the cushions. “But now, it’s like it’s all unraveled. It’s just a single thread now. One long filament stretched so thin it’s barely there. Stretched thin from Iraq to here, knotted in a pile I can’t untangle.”
I exhaled, my voice breaking as I spoke. “No matter what I do, I can’t weave it back. It will never be what it once was.”
Silence followed again. Dr. Chris didn’t rush to fill it. I wiped a hand across my face, and a hot tear smattered on the leatherette cushion, wending its way into the stitching.
“It sounds like you’re grieving,” he responded. “Every change is a loss, and you’ve lost a lot. A lot has changed.” He continued, steady but soft, “And, as you know, grief is just love that has nowhere to go.”
I nodded quietly at the wisdom I already knew, but hadn’t found the words to express.
“What you’re feeling — this unraveling — it’s not something that will ever disappear. Grief doesn’t diminish. We don’t 'get over' it.” He paused for a moment, and I fidgeted with my watch strap, subconsciously glancing at the exit. “But we can grow around it. We can learn to accommodate it. The tapestry isn’t gone, it’s just different. It’s changed, yes, but it’s still there.”
His words hung in the air, and I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that somehow, despite everything I’d lost, despite everything I’d left behind, there was still a life for me to live. A way forward.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the thread was still too fragile, too knotted to ever become whole again. Some days felt one scissor’s snip away from the end of everything.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that these things take time,” I sighed, wishing to sink under the sofa cushions and disappear, “and that I can’t rush the process.”
Dr. Chris reclined a bit, his eyes filled with quiet humor and empathy. “It’s clear you’ve been through this process before. And you’re right — these wounds take time to heal. But you’re already on the right path. I believe you’ll find the way forward again.”
I looked away, somewhat doubtful. But the weight in my chest shifted just slightly, like a crack in the wall. Maybe, for now, it was enough to let the light in.
One question gnawed at me for months, though, a splinter buried deep, never quite working its way out: What had triggered the personal threat to my continued safety in Iraq? Of all the expats I knew, I was the only one who’d been called to evacuate — so why me? The truth is, I may never know. Sure, I can speculate. Maybe it was my influence in education — rebuilding systems, meeting with ministers, pushing Western standards. Maybe it was my memoir, its quiet themes of refugees and self-reflection daring to pick at cultural scabs still trying to heal in a shifting post-conflict Iraq. Or maybe it was just my American face, easy to pick out. It could even have been my invitations to friends to learn about Jewish holidays, dangerous to express so publicly with the Israel-Gaza conflict flaring like a fuse. All of these were possibilities. None of them were certainties.
The reality is that knowing ‘why’ is often privilege, not a right. When agents from the State Department, the FBI, and the CIA call you on a conference line and tell you personally to leave, you don’t ask for reasons. You don’t debate. You don’t try to make sense of it. You pack your bags. You go.
And in the aftermath, that void of explanation becomes its own kind of wound. Without a ‘why,’ the trauma becomes unanchored, drifting without reason, without closure. It feels senseless, like trying to find your shadow in the dark. How do you find resolution when you don’t even know what you’re resolving?
Each theory, every possible reason, felt like a loose thread in the unraveling tapestry of my former life. Pull one, and the whole thing frayed. Leave it untouched, and it tangled with the others, a knot that never loosened. I would go over the facts again and again in my mind, as if some hidden meaning might emerge — as if somehow, by sheer force of will, the answer would present itself. But it never did.
Yet, in that sea of uncertainty, there were small, steady anchors. Had it not been for the safe harbor of home and family, I might not have fared so well. Friday evening dinners with my stepbrother and sister created an anchor point from which to process events and chart a new course. Time with my brothers, being “Uncle Extraordinaire” to my nieces and nephews — these moments became the threads that kept me tethered. They didn’t repair the tapestry, but they helped weave something new, something that could hold the weight of what I’d been through. As someone recently informed me, in the wake of trauma, “We don’t always need to know why, we just need to be loved.”
And so, within this anchor of family, my life settled into this strange, new, American rhythm. Mornings began with a jarring alarm, my body resisting the urge to start another day at Kohl’s department store. It wasn’t much, just a part-time job behind the register. Ringing up sales, reminding customers of their Kohl’s Cash, occasionally folding towels or re-racking returns. A brainless job, but that was part of the appeal. It dulled the senses, gave my mind a break. After so much time spent navigating the complexities of a life full of responsibility and autonomy in Iraq, it was almost a relief to have a routine that asked so little of me.
But that simplicity came with its own challenges. Most everything I had known—friendships, possessions, a sense of purpose—felt locked behind a national border I was no longer permitted to cross. And here, in the department store, I was surrounded by the endless aisles of everything anyone could ever want. People blithely buying throw pillows to match their autumn decor while I was wrestling to come to terms with everything I’d left behind. The clashing worlds grated against each other, leaving me feeling both safe and strangely out of place.
Familiar places in my hometown felt foreign, too. I’d take long, detouring drives past now-shuttered strip malls or through housing developments that had once been farm fields, and retreat into my thoughts. Friends would ask about Iraq, but their questions often skimmed the surface — “Was it dangerous?” or “Aren’t you glad to be back?” — followed by a presumptive nod while failing to acknowledge the nuanced response. I’d leave each encounter, feeling the conversation’s emptiness like a stone in my shoe.
Then there was Doris, the shift supervisor at Kohl’s, notorious for her sardonic wit and blunt demeanor. She often lamented the state of the world, her eyes rolling as the news blared in the break room, filling the air with discontent. Yet, despite her tough exterior, she took a shine to me. One bustling holiday shift, she sensed my rising anxiety as the throngs of shoppers descended on the checkouts. Abandoned carts filled the entryway, and the counters overflowed with t-shirts, Barbie dolls, and an array of Christmas trinkets.
With professional calm, she stepped away from barking orders at the other cashiers and slid into my bay. Typing in her store ID, she gently took the scanner from my trembling hands. “The training room is quiet and empty,” she murmured, her voice low but steady as she greeted the next customer. “You can shut the door until the panic passes.”
As the scanner beeped like a reassuring heart monitor, she meticulously slid each item into the bagging area. “Will you be paying by Kohl’s Card today?” she chirped to the customer, while I retreated to the back room, curling in the corner, grateful for the comforting hum of computer servers and the muted store muzak until the panic subsided.
During one afternoon lull, I shared with her my budding ideas of doing some public speaking as a way to educate others about world cultures. She planted her arms on the checkout counter, leaning in with uncharacteristic gravity. “You don’t belong here selling credit to customers,” she said, her voice almost gentle. “You should be out there, doing real work to help people.”
Her words landed with a clarity I couldn’t ignore, a spark that lit somewhere deep. I had nothing to say, only a nod and a faint smile, but that night, as I lay in bed, her voice replayed, a steady call to do more, to step beyond myself. What if there was something more I could do with all this pain, something beyond the transactional exchanges at the store? What if the unraveling I’d experienced could somehow become a thread for someone else’s tapestry?
So, I cast my nets everywhere: school talks, church groups, civic organizations. I spoke about loss, resilience, and the value of just putting one foot in front of the other, even when the way forward was clouded. As I shared my story, the rooms would grow silent, with expressions shifting from curiosity to something softer, more vulnerable—a reminder that our struggles often connect us more deeply than our successes.
At the same time, I kept applying for international schools, feeling a pull back toward education overseas. Yet each talk became more than an outreach; it was space around my own grief, an encouragement I needed to hear myself. Dr. Chris’s words echoed within me—sometimes it’s about learning to move within the hurt rather than pushing it away. Sharing became a way to ease the weight, to create room for living, even when the past felt too close to bear.
The email buzzed through on my phone almost as soon as I’d shut the lid on my laptop after the interview. It was a spring day, the trees greening up with promises as rife as the prospects blossoming in my mind. I was amazed at the swift decision—though I shouldn't have been, since the interview had felt like a breeze. As I glanced at the screen, the words barely registered: We are pleased to offer you a position at our international school in Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire. I had to hurry out the door to my next speaking engagement, barely able to process this shot at a new beginning and the chance to rebuild the kind of life I thought I’d left behind forever.
But with the opportunity came a pang of fear. Memories of being uprooted in the dead of night, fleeing with the knowledge that nothing would be the same, clung to my mind like shadows. Could I really start over again… again? How would I handle leaving behind the unfinished seams I’d stitched together while back in the US? And could I face the risk of being torn away from a new life if things suddenly went wrong?
I thought about my time at Kohl’s—those long shifts spent folding clothes and scanning barcodes, the way routine had numbed my mind just enough to keep panic at bay. And then, I thought of Doris, her fiery wit countered with moments of genuine concern she’d shown me. Her words had been like a steadying hand on my back, urging me forward when I could so easily have sat unchallenged at the register. You’re wasting your talent here, Joel. Get out there and do the things you were made to do.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was ready for a new chapter. I needed to prove to myself that I could still be that person—the one who had taken risks, taught with passion, and embraced the unknown. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I wanted to rebuild.
Leaving set off an avalanche of activity; this time with the bittersweet luxury of carefully choosing what to take and what to leave behind. Amid piles of possessions, I curated two suitcases that held the essentials of the life I intended to build next. One item gave me pause: the old key rack from my apartment in Iraq, a handcrafted piece that resembled a loom with a Kurdish tapestry mid-weave. The apartment keys still hung there, a small, stubborn reminder of all I’d left locked away. With a heavy heart, I dropped them into the trash, disappearing into the depths with a quiet thud. In that moment, I realized I was keeping only the frame of what had been. I turned the object over in my hands, then carefully wrapped it in bubble wrap and slid it in my suitcase between a pile of t-shirts. This wasn’t the frantic urgency of a forced departure; it was the deliberate act of someone ready to move forward.
Before my last shift at Kohl’s, I ordered a box of stress balls shaped like globes. That final afternoon, I placed them in the break room with a handwritten note: “You mean the world to me.” It was cheesy, yes, but true. Without the brainless, mundane routine of Kohl’s, without Doris’s bracing pep talks, I might not have dared to hope again.
It felt like a small way to say thank you — to acknowledge the place and the people who had been a lifeline when I needed it most. As I set the box on the counter, I wondered what Doris would make of it. I imagined her rolling her eyes at the sentimentality, but maybe, just maybe, she’d crack a smile.
I took one last look at the store as I walked out the automatic doors, the familiar swoosh of air brushing my face. I thought about the customers, the never-ending sales promotions, and the quiet refuge the back stockroom had become in those early days when panic surged. It was a strange kind of gratitude — appreciating the mundane that had held me together. But now it was time to step back into the world.
As I drove away, the weight of uncertainty lifted slightly, replaced by a flutter of something close to hope. A new life awaited me across the ocean. And while I didn’t know what I’d find in Abidjan, I knew that I was ready to try, to weave a new thread into the tapestry of my life — even if it meant embracing the unknown all over again. ❦
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