One day in 1979, as feelings from my past reminded me of who and what I was, I wrote this poem. The day I wrote it was not ordinary, not like every other day. That day, for some reason, memory took me back to when I was eight years old, back to a troubling point in my life when I was more than uncomfortable.
Even now, after almost seven decades, I remember it as if today were sixty-six years ago. The thoughts and feelings of that day marked the juncture when I began to think seriously about myself. And the memory of it was so painful that I had to take breaks while putting my feelings into poetry.
I will always remember that day in the late 1950s. I was eight years old, a child old enough to be aware of my body, yet young enough for such an experience to leave a permanent imprint on my mind.
The school bus had picked up my mother and me, along with all the other children from my class, as well as some from other grades. Everyone wanted to go swimming, and the school did this for us only twice each summer, so it was a big treat. The school took us to Venice Beach because it had an Olympic-sized pool.
We all got off the bus and walked down the boardwalk. It was a glorious day, and at the pool, we swam to reach the other end. A few of the kids could go three-fourths of the way, but many could not do more than wade in the shallow end. I made it halfway, then turned back and stayed there playing, where the water was not too deep, and I felt safe.
Of course, there were teachers with us to make sure everyone had fun and stayed safe, but they were all busy, so I was on my own, and I did what I knew, practicing the techniques I had learned. And I didn’t have a care in the world until Mama got me out of the pool and helped me dress. That was when, out of nowhere, I became aware of a sound I had heard before, a sound I had barely noticed.
At first, I wondered what focused my interest on the sound, so I sharpened my concentration and honed in on what I heard, trying to both recall and gather information.
I stood there, dressed, leg brace on. Ready to go. Then I heard it again as I took a step forward—a CLINKING, a vibration.
It was me. It was the way I walked. I zoomed into that sound—my brace buckle. With each step, my left foot took, the buckle tapped the metal of the brace.
My limp was clear, pronounced. When walking without the brace, my left foot slapped down on the cement with every step. You would know it was me coming. Without the brace—the rattle.
Numb, flustered, I stared down at my foot and asked myself, “Why can’t I be normal?”
Keeping silent, not trying to answer, for the first time in my young life, I took mental notes about myself.
With my brace on, my foot did not slap. My steps made a completely different sound, the clang of my brace strap’s buckle, plus the dull thud of my hushed limp.
This realization shook me to my core. I didn’t want to be this way. Still, I knew I was. And I knew I had to give special regard to who I was.
This feeling made me uncomfortable, vulnerable, and unsteady emotionally. When I hear this sound today, I relive those moments and am immersed in them, and they show up spontaneously.
Throughout the years, even today, when I go for a walk, it’s with me. My constant companion, it’s by my side. The remembrance of those sounds is always with me, even though I have not worn a brace since childhood.
This makes me feel inferior, and brings back the doubts I used to suffer, even though I worked through those emotions years ago. I reel in the feelings and nurture my being, knowing I must come to terms with myself.
I say, “Accept honey, accept.”
Every time I hear that sound, it triggers this experience, but I immediately recognize what’s happening. I acknowledge my thoughts, redirect and change my thinking, and move forward with positive affirmations.
There is no hiding from my thoughts or feelings, or how I’d like to be. But I can rein them in. I make myself think only good thoughts—love, acceptance, and telling myself that I am beautiful just the way I am, affirming it over and over again until the hurtful thoughts disappear and I believe what I’m saying to myself.
During these moments, I gaze into the blue sky and visualize the ocean. I send peace and love to the disabled parts of my body and think about taking action, about giving myself whatever I need to heal. I have to be honest and accept my imperfections and my disabilities. I must give myself my own approval and recognition because I have to validate myself. No one else can. Only I can give this to myself, and complete healing will come when I have done all the work.
Not only do I need to nurture and care for myself unconditionally, but to surround myself with people who love me and tell me the truth. While turning to the power of love and forgiveness, I think about all the years of my life and all the letting go. I know, even more now, that I must dig deeper. I must gently recognize, release, grasp, and understand so I can let go more completely.
Thinking back, I gaze at that picture from a day long past.
Snapshot Of Long Ago
On that day,
That glorious day
Where I
Had not a care
I reminisce
And I remember
The warm water
Rinsing through my hair,
As I tried splashing and swimming
To reach the other side.
I remember
Dressing and
Looking down
At my heavy bars
That buckled my
Paralyzed left leg
And, I remember
Sitting near mother dear,
Singing songs
With a childish flair
On that summer’s day,
I remember
My syncopated rhythm
As I began prancing at play,
Those snapshots
Have come and gone,
As they ring through my soul,
Only now,
They drift back
My way,
As I gaze
Into that same
Peaceful pond
Upon where I stood,
Long time past,
Remembering the picture
That fills my memories
Of my life’s past!
You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.
Original text ©2025 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image from Karen Lynn-Chlup’s personal collection and not to be reproduced without permission.
