There is a period in my twenties about which I have not written very much.

In trying to think about why I have left this out of my story, when I share so much of my story, I think that it is because I wasn’t always as open as I am, so sharing the story of my early twenties is something that I couldn’t have done while I was actually in my early twenties, if that makes sense.

And also, it was a hard time for me.

If you don’t know my story, I had an unusual college experience of sorts. I went to Barcelona as a Sophomore and then met my husband when I was 20. We got engaged when I was 21 and a Senior in college and during that time we lived together in a townhouse that was part of a big property of apartments and townhomes. It was so grown up for us, and it was a place that holds many special memories for us.

See? It was so cute.

(And did you really think that my dance partying started just recently?)

I don’t have a lot of digital photos of our old place, but I do, wonderfully, have photos with my beloved family dogs as they had sleepovers with us

in Townhouse 6D.

The last picture of I have with my Lucy.

And sweet Teddy, whom we lost this Fall.

The two years we spent living in that townhouse were big ones: I graduated from college, I went to graduate school, we got Lola and got married,

all in that order.

We also lost my beloved Uncle, which was probably the most defining event of that time.

And, I started to grow up. And I was not ready.

Change has always been hard for me. While I am someone who loves soaking up every drop of color and passion from life, I am also terribly scared of the unknown.

I was the only one of my friends with a fiance, ring, home, husband

and not in that order.

And so, for me, this period of time was bittersweet. I have so many sweet memories that are flooding over me right now like a deluge, but for the purpose of this story, I am going to tell you about the harder part.

For the reasons I described above, and some others, I found my time at the townhouse to be lonely. I was living the life of an adult, but I was still very much a 22 year old. I would go out with my friends in the city and in those moments I would feel like everyone else, dancing and drinking, and then I would have to take a taxi home to my cozy little nest in the suburbs. In some ways it was the best of both worlds, and in others, it made me feel lost.

During that period of time, during the last semester of college and first of graduate school, I took to walking around the expansive property of our community. I found a sense of security in the familiar trails, some of which I would walk, on certain days, at sunrise. I can still see the misty air.

Some days I would walk through the more developed part of the area and other days I would stick to the shade of the woods, but every day,

every day,

I would walk past the home of the woman whose townhouse backed up to mine, but was around a corner and down a small hill.

This woman had a window that was visible from the street, and through the window I could see a lovely looking lady, about the age of my grandparents, as she sat at her table and watched TV on a small set in her kitchen, while eating a bowl of cookies.

I invented so many stories about this woman about whom I knew absolutely nothing. I would walk by and see her sitting there, with a mug or a magazine, and I would think, “I want her to take me in. I want my life to be that cozy. That calm. That simple.”

Because to me, as an outsider, it seemed like she lived in the adult equivalent of a fort, where she could just hole up and be happy and eat cookies on swirly chairs.

I longed for her to nurture me. I longed to be at her table, with her, as I pictured us watching game shows and eating Lorna Doones.

I wanted things to slow down for a moment, as my life seemed to be racing by, things happening so fast, and everything in my real world was so complicated (or so I thought, back then).

I, like Britney, was “Not a girl, not yet a woman.”

I was very unhappy in graduate school and (this is something that I have never shared with anyone before) in the semester leading up to my wedding, so the Spring of 2008, I spent many days in my bed, cuddling with my best friend, Lola, watching The L Word on DVD. I needed to escape from life.

And this scene is the perfect metaphor for the inner turmoil that I was experiencing: I spent days in bed, but because I had registered for incredibly nice bedding, I had fancy sheets, a ridiculously high end down comforter and a gorgeous duvet under which to hide.

And so I walked. I walked by the woman in the window.

The woman in the window started to become a character in my dialogue with my husband and not just in my head. I would sometimes, jokingly, express my desire to him for her to take me in.

“I wish that someone else could take care of me. I wish I didn’t have to take care of everything by myself. It’s too much. It’s too hard.”

 I was lost within four walls.

Looking back on this time, with the insight that I have now, maybe I did have a touch of depression, or just some great anxiety, but I know that I was not my best self.

After two years of living in our townhouse, we bought our first home and moved 15 minutes away, to a place where I never really wanted to live. I don’t mean to sound melancholy or ungrateful, as my first house was where I brought home my daughter and experienced great joy and happiness.

But, after moving, I would still drive to my old townhouse, park in my old spot, and walk past the woman in the window.

As long as she was there, life was still secure.

To this day, if one of my children has fallen asleep in the car and I need a place around which to drive, I drive past my townhouse, and by the woman in the window, who never knew that I longed for her,

even loved her in a way,

but who was always there, at her table, as a fixture in the narrative of my world.

***

 Several weeks ago, I sat at the kitchen table with our dear babysitter, who was the first person to ever watch my children. She has been with us for years, and I have known her for nearly her whole life.

We were feeding my kids dinner, talking, as we always do, and she was telling me that she had plans to have Shabbat dinner with her Bubby.

We talked about her Bubby, her dear grandmother, and I asked, “I know I am forgetting, but where does she live, again?”

And she told me the name of the place where I used to have my townhouse.

I couldn’t believe the coincidence.

“What Unit is she? I was 6D,” I told her, and when she told me where her Bubby lives and described it’s location on the property, my started to race.

“No. No no no no no. It can’t be!” my brain was shouting at itself.

“Does your Bubby happen to have chairs with a swirly design?”

“Yes!”

And after a few more questions we realized that my babysitter’s Bubby is the woman in the window.

I was, for lack of a better word, gobsmacked.

I called my husband immediately, and he was equally astonished.

The woman in the window had been such a seminal character in my last decade, and I had no idea that she was the grandmother of our cherished babysitter.

I can say it over and over again, but it is still hard for me to comprehend.

Bubby is the woman in the window.

***

Life works in some crazy ways. That’s a saying. But it’s true.

In my early twenties, this woman, this stranger who never knew of my existence, helped to take care of me, by fostering in me a sense of security and well being.

In my mid to late twenties, her granddaughter helped to take care of me by being the first (and, for a very long time, only) person to watch my daughter.

It was this babysitter who told me to start writing again, as a way to help me to overcome my hard story.

Now that I am fresh out of my twenties, I have a completely new perspective on life. I like being the caretaker. I no longer fear change in the same way that I used to and I no longer long to be nurtured (as much), as I have become the nurturer.

And though the woman in the window never “took care” of me, her granddaughter takes care of my children every single week. She is a part of our family.

Now, if that is not an amazing story, what is?

***

Growing up is hard. When we are young, it can be something we try to rush to do, or, for those like me, it can be something simultaneously seductive and scary.

But, if we are blessed enough, then it happens, whether we like it or not.

There are so many lessons that I can take from this story; there are so many stories in this one post; but there is one thing that resonates with me most:

You don’t always know the effect you have on the world.

You could be a character in someone’s story without ever knowing it,

just because they find comfort in parking in the spot next to yours each day

or because they serve you your coffee each morning

or because you sit at your table, watching TV, as a young girl walks by, searching for answers.

The woman in the window will always hold a special place in my heart,

and now, hopefully, I can find a way to thank her.

Starting right now.