So I’ve thought about what digital spaces I’ll update with this name change, and which ones I may leave alone, and why I choose to make this distinction. I updated my name on Facebook—minus the reaction I had after updating my Twitter account—which makes me wonder about the identities maintained on each of these networks, the distinct spheres of my Internet, and the different levels of public.
But there was a drawn-out moment—one that lasted years, for as long as we all swirled together, nourished through the music and the substances. The partying halted like a trainwreck, but in slow motion. As we came down, I tried to grab onto something tangible to take with me: a constant, or a totem from that world that made sense outside of it.
I realized I needed to let go of my 20-year search for this rock—and understand that it was okay to stop chasing the memory, to stop luring it to the surface. Because the memory’s elusiveness makes it precious. And because it was a perfect day for my aunt and me to create a new memory, and to select a new spot—just for us—for the next decades to come.