I’ve always been jealous of birds and their ability to fly. When I look at my friends and family, all I can think about is how they are the bluejays and the hummingbirds of the wild. Not only are they beautiful and interesting creatures but they have the power within them to soar to great heights and get lost in the clouds.

Me? I’m a penguin. Awkward and always susceptible to danger, I am one of the only birds who will never see the sunset from above the horizon. But then I’m reminded, as I enter my mother’s room and see all the stuffed penguins lying on top of her dresser shelves, that those awkward and clumsy little creatures are her favorite animal. Not a hummingbird. Not a bluejay. A penguin.

Now of course this poses a major question: if my mother can like penguins despite all their flaws, why can’t I? Well, it all goes back to November 2020. And the month that I found my wings.

Back then, I was still in the midst of what would go down as the worst year of my life, and the ice surrounding my home had just begun to melt faster. The country was in oblivion and people were beginning to wonder if things would ever get back to the way they once were. I didn’t even think I would make it past eighteen, much less live through a global pandemic, so I was still trying to wrap my head around everything. Unfortunately, what started as a month of growth ended with me in an ambulance fighting for my life. 

They say that when you die you can see your soul remove itself from your body, almost like a bird that finally had the opportunity to break free from the cage it was trapped in its whole life. But the only thing I remember seeing is the look of pure disappointment interlaced with horror on my mother’s face as they carted me away. It made me rethink everything. Like whether or not I’d be missed. Would I be leaving behind a legacy? And how would my mother ever be able to look at penguins the same, now that I was gone?  

Later when I was being admitted and they asked if I could recall what happened, I simply stated the truth. “I, Molly Allison Scalf, was tired of being on a planet that did not want me there, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.” The nurse only shook her head at my sarcasm and I could tell she’d heard that shtick a million times because I have said it a million times before. She then proceeded to give me a pair of those hospital socks that never quite fit the way they’re supposed to before wheeling me into the place I’d never thought I’d end up back in. 

Now the thing about psych wards is that you never know what you’re going to get when you walk through the doors. It all depends on which batch of inpatients you’re stuck with, the hospital itself and its program, and the food. Because I was eighteen, they put me in an adult ward and I soon found out that I was the youngest one there. Things were smooth sailing for the first couple of days. I was asleep most of the time, and when I wasn’t napping I was attending groups and visiting my psychiatrist.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that things started to turn around. My old roommate was just discharged and a girl around my age ended up taking her place. Her name was Isabel and I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on her. Bruises covered the expanse of her body while her lip was merely held together by a pair of stitches, and don’t even get me started on the bags under her eyes. I was immediately drawn to the look of contempt on her face and the way she went looking for a good book to read as soon as she got there instead of interacting with the other patients.

I would later find out why she was so angry with the world and why she felt like a caged bird too. Her mother, a Muslim woman who believed violence is the only way to discipline a child, beat up her daughter for simply adhering to her own set of rules. She was choked and suffocated and thrown around her own home until a neighbor saw what was happening and called 911. 

“So what happened after that?” I remember asking her as the two of us sat across from each other on our unmade beds. 

“After I got here [the hospital] the police went through their domestic dispute protocol and asked me if I wanted to press charges.” 

“And what did you say?” Isabel began fiddling with the sheet on the mattress before looking up at me, conflict written all over her strained features. 

“I said no.” 

“Oh.” A tension-filled silence then fell upon us, every unsaid word left high and dry like birds in a storm. I wanted to ask her why. Why would she choose to go back home if she knew the devil was waiting for her with open arms?

As if reading my mind, Isabel smiled a little bit before saying, “Abuse looks different in every case. For some, it’s their husband or boyfriend that are alcoholics. For others, it’s their siblings whose rage is fueled by jealousy. But for me, it’s my Mom. My birth giver.” She paused and laughed a little at the made-up term before continuing. “Anyway, it’s different when a parent abuses you because they’re the ones who are supposed to love you no matter what. And even though my mom hates me, I would still do anything for her because she’s my mom. My ‘birth giver’. And I think I at least owe her that.”

The nurse came in and told us to come down for dinner before I could respond, but I know Isabel was smart enough to interpret what I was trying to tell her with my body language.

You are not alone. And for once in my life, I didn’t feel like I was either.

I gained a sister that day. And it wouldn’t be until a few months later that I’d fully understand what those days of sharing a room with her would mean for me and my healing. We laughed. We cried. We told each other things that we’d never told anyone else. And when it came time for me to leave Good Samaritan, I told her thank you. I thanked her for reminding me that wings are used to fly and swim. I thanked her for being a light in a tunnel that had been dark for too long. 

I thanked her for saving my life.

“What are you going to do after you get out of here?” she asked me while I was packing up all my things. I stopped putting away the books my dad brought me to read so I could think about her question. My immediate response was that I would just go back to the way things were and hope that that would be enough to get me through the days. But then I thought about Isabel and how she would be walking right back into a tornado after she got discharged. I looked out the barred-up windows that provided our only source of sunlight. And then I glanced back at my roommate and smiled softly.

“I think I’m going to go skydiving.” 

When the hospital was getting redone, they left a wall in the middle of the unit, and throughout the years, patients have written down words of wisdom on it for the ones who follow in their footsteps. I wrote two things on that wall.

The first was something meant for not just Isabel’s eyes but anyone that needed to know that they aren’t alone. 

It’s never too late to turn everything around.

The second thing I wrote was for me and my personal growth. It was a token to where I’ve been, where I’m at, and where I have yet to go. When I look back on 2020 in ten years, I don’t want to compare my ice age to the drought of my peers. I don’t want to reflect and feel like a failure. Like I wasn’t enough. The reality is that I’ve already spent enough time putting myself down for growing at a different rate than everyone else around me. I need to learn to love myself for who I am, not who I want to be. And maybe someday down the line, I can look at myself in the mirror and feel comfortable knowing that Isabel is looking up at the same stars that I am and that hopefully, she’s okay. 

I was here.

In that hospital. On this planet. It may not seem like much, but my existence means something and to me, that’s enough.