The songs, words and little reminders that sustain us until we find our footing again.
I was sitting on my verandah here in Montego Bay, Jamaica, sipping my coffee this morning when I heard a familiar song playing somewhere in the not-too-far distance. Céline Dion. All By Myself.
And just like that, I wasn't only sitting on a verandah in Montego Bay anymore. I was remembering a much younger version of myself, newly migrated to America, living in Jersey City while my children were still here in Jamaica.
From the outside, I was functioning. I had a corporate job at Lehman Brothers. I got up every morning, went to work and did what needed to be done. But inside, I was a mother trying to build a better future while desperately missing her children. There were immigration issues I was trying to navigate, a marriage that had not turned out to be what I believed it was, and a future that suddenly looked very different from the one I had envisioned.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, there was Céline Dion's album, Falling Into You.
That album barely left my CD player. All By Myself gave me somewhere to put the loneliness. I played it loudly. I sang. I danced. I cried. Sometimes I did all three. Because You Loved Me took on a different meaning entirely. I played that one thinking about my children, my two heartbeats, and the love that reminded me why I had to keep going.
Music did not change my circumstances. Neither did it lessen the miles between Jamaica and Jersey City, untangle immigration issues or make an uncertain future suddenly clear. But it gave me an outlet. It held space for feelings I didn't always know how to articulate, and sometimes that is exactly what we need.
Maybe for you it wasn't an album. Maybe it was a book you kept beside your bed, a scripture you returned to again and again, a prayer whispered when you couldn't find anything else to say, a friend who listened without trying to fix you, or a particular place where you could sit long enough to hear yourself think.
| The things that carry us through difficult seasons may seem ordinary or insignificant to somebody else, but we know what they meant to us. |
That's what struck me this morning. I wasn't intentionally revisiting those early years in America. I certainly hadn't planned to sit down and write about Céline Dion. I was simply drinking my coffee when a song I hadn't heard in a while reached across almost thirty years and brought that younger woman back to me.
And then there was the mug sitting beside me.
Joy Comes in the Morning.
These words have been part of AUBRIEA for years. I have placed them on a mug, worn them across my chest on a sweatshirt and carried their meaning with me through different cities, countries and seasons of my life, because they represented my truth about JOY: it does return.
From my camera roll. Joy was already close by. Wearing my Joy Comes in the Morning sweatshirt after arriving in London following an overnight flight.
But this morning, those words landed differently. I could see the distance between the woman who needed that music then and the woman listening to it now.
Back then, I was in Jersey City and my children were in Jamaica. Today, I am the one sitting in Jamaica, and my children are adults, living and leading lives of their own on different continents. Between that apartment and this verandah, there has been so much life.
I have loved deeply and lost deeply. I have had to start over in ways that had nothing to do with crossing an ocean. I have travelled, created, built a brand and written books. At 62, I can sit on a beach in Jamaica holding a novel with my name on it—a life that younger version of me could not possibly have foreseen.
There were chapters she could never have anticipated. Some beautiful. Some devastating. Some I would have gladly skipped. But all these years later, I can look back at her with gratitude because she kept moving even when she couldn't see very far ahead.
Perhaps that is one of the gifts of getting older. We get enough distance to see our earlier selves differently. We understand things we couldn't understand while we were living them. We recognize the strength it took to survive certain seasons, but we can also recognize that survival was never meant to be the end of the story.
| There is life on the other side of the thing you are trying to get through. |
There are mornings you haven't seen yet. Places you haven't visited. People you haven't met. Dreams you haven't dreamed. There may even be versions of yourself you cannot see from where you are standing today.
I certainly couldn't see this one.
And yet here I am, still creating, still becoming, and still finding reasons to laugh, dream, travel, write, skylark and turn up my audacity. I am grateful for that younger version of HER, and I am equally grateful for this version of HER—the woman who gets to sit on another verandah, in a new chapter, and still recognize herself when an old song comes drifting through the morning.
From my camera roll. Life has a way of bringing us to chapters we couldn't see from where we started. A few glimpses of the life I get to live now—by the sea, on the verandah, and holding my debut novel.
Joy comes in the morning.
I believe that a little more today than I did yesterday.
And perhaps there is a song, a book, a scripture, a prayer, a person, or even an ordinary object that holds a piece of your story too—something that was there when you needed it and, years later, can remind you not only of where you've been, but of just how far you've come.
I'd love to know what's your thing that held you in some of your most difficult seasons?
With my sweet love,
xo, Marcia 🌹
Marcia M. Allen
Founder, AUBRIEA
Author of Webs, Love & Fireworks and Heart is Home
From My Verandah
A few things from my Verandah that hold some of the same threads of joy, reflection, resilience, and the life we continue to create along the way.
Joy Comes in the Morning Mug — a simple reminder of a truth I have carried through many seasons: joy does return.
The AUBRIEA Candle Collection — the scent of a slow August afternoon.
Heart is Home Journal — seven days of self-love and reflection.
Webs, Love & Fireworks — the escape you did not know you needed.