The photo was crumpled, its edges worn and dogeared. My fingers brushed over its surface, leaving a faint smear as I scanned the image. An old oak tree stood tall, and there, hanging from a sturdy limb, was her weathered tire swing. She wears a simple yellow dress, its fabric gently swaying in the breeze. Her hair, streaked with strands of blonde, is swept back in a loose bun, framing a beaming smile.

Like Frost with his birches, I, too, like to get away from earth awhile on the same swing at my grandfather’s house.

As I soar on the swing, I feel the rush of my ascent, the wind against my face, the world blurring with speed. A thrilling pit in my stomach forms as I make sure to brace myself for each inevitable swing of the pendulum.

I guess you could say I’ve become an expert in bracing myself.

I braced myself for when all of my classmates excitedly made handmade cards for Mother’s Day. I would sit and make one for my dad again, although he didn’t have the traditional characteristics of being a mother.

I braced myself for when I had to search for Youtube videos on how to braid my own hair. This was hard to do since I couldn’t see the back of my own head. My dad tried to help, but again, his experience with braiding was…limited.

I braced myself for when she couldn’t be there to hold me after Chloe tormented me on the playground at recess. She pushed me in the mud, and it might’ve been good to have some motherly advice here on how to peacefully deal with this situation. Instead, I did what my dad told me to do: I pushed her back. 

I braced myself again when my doctor told me I had scoliosis. It sounded like some rare, incurable disease to me when I was thirteen. I practiced pronouncing it in my room, again with a Youtube video as support.

There was the familiar pit in my stomach as I braced myself for the downward swing of the pendulum.

Twenty hours, seven days a week, for the indefinite future. That was how long I had to wear the back brace.

It wrapped around me like a bear hug from an overbearing aunt. Its design resembled something a medieval knight might wear to battle, complete with straps and buckles. 

Each morning, getting dressed became a strategic process. Oversized hoodies and sweatpants became the best ways to cover my secret. When at school or hanging out with friends, I would be hyper-aware—making subtle adjustments throughout the day would ensure my brace would stay hidden. 

Because I couldn’t even fully pronounce my condition properly yet and because I feared embarrassment more than pain of death (as most thirteen-year-olds do), I had no idea how to explain my scoliosis to my friends. So I didn’t. I just kept hiding.

It wasn’t until I stumbled upon that old photograph that my walls started crumbling. In that weathered image, I certainly noted my mom’s warm smile, yet it was her back brace that really caught my eye: a piece of her history, now mirrored in my own life.

Here was a tangible link connecting me to my mother, even though she had passed away when I was three. 

As I smoothed out the wrinkles of the photo, I realized that my mom lives on through me, woven into the very fabric of my being, and that my secret was not just mine to bear. It was our shared burden. As strange as it sounds, it was almost like I felt her embrace through time somehow, through the brace that binds us together.

So now, as I brace myself for the future, I can always feel the embrace of my past.