It's the little things.

Some cities break you down slowly, letting you settle in and catch your breath before molding you into someone unrecognizable. Boston has never done me that courtesy.

In about two weeks, I’ll be moving back east to pursue a master's in Theological Studies at Harvard Divinity School. And even as I browse through courses for a program I’ve dreamed of for ages, what I’m really doing is preparing to return to a city that holds more memories, of more weight, than almost anywhere else I’ve lived.

From August 2010 until July 2016, I lived all over the Boston area: Cambridge, Somerville, Everett, and Back Bay. I arrived as an 18-year-old Harvard freshman and left as someone she wouldn’t have recognized. Married but separated, heading for divorce. Shattered and disillusioned. Assaulted and silent. So much of what shaped the woman I am today happened in those years, to that body, on those brick sidewalks. And so much of it happened without a witness.

There should be a word for the ache of returning to a city that remembers a version of you that didn’t survive.

For the past nine years, under the warmth of the California sun, I’ve compulsively replayed the worst moments of my time in Massachusetts - afraid that losing sight of the details would mean letting go of the truth. From the beginning and end of my marriage, to my exit from the church I was raised in, to the assault I reported in whispers - too afraid and too unsupported to pursue justice - there are people invested in misremembering those years. So I’ve carried the weight of remembering those moments alone. At times, to the point of self-destruction.

But the worst moments are not the whole story.

Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve been back to Boston more times than I can count - quick visits for work, family, or friends - but I never stayed long. I never lingered. I never strolled. Calling a car instead of taking the T, Boston gridlock be damned. Unwittingly, the Ubers became a buffer: a thin layer of protection between me and the memories waiting on every corner, in every train station.

That changed this spring when I spent a few weeks in Boston in late May and early June. This visit was different; my brother was graduating from Harvard College and I was beginning my return to the very same campus. As the plane took off from LAX, I felt something shift and as the pilot started our descent, I started to remember what my body had spent years trying to forget.

I’m preparing to live on a grad student budget now, which means the luxury of emotional distance by way of Uber is no longer an option; I’ll be walking everywhere. Geographically, Boston is a pretty small city. Neighborhoods that feel separate in my memory sit right on top of one another, and even a short walk can confront me with multiple long-forgotten moments and the versions of me who lived them. A sweet memory from 2015 on this block, a vivid flashback to 2011 on the next.

I had prepared myself to pass the first apartment I shared with my ex-husband and the Market Basket where we used to shop.

But I had forgotten about the tire shop where he took our car for maintenance, and the building where a life-sized image of my rapist once stared out from the first-floor windows.

It’s the little things.

And the big ones.

There’s something jarring about returning to a city where your memories are more than emotional. They’re tangible. Architectural. Immovable. Mapped out in streets, and homes, and storefronts you can’t avoid.

What surprised me, though, was realizing how many joyful memories live there too.

I’d spent so long gripping the traumatic moments that I forgot how many life-affirming ones I'd buried beneath them. I forgot what it felt like to climb Lowell Bell Tower and sing in harmony with the Callbacks. I lost sight of how lucky I once felt just to be there. I didn’t spend time remembering the wide-eyed children I nannied and adored. I forgot to laugh at the joyful terror of launching my first business with women who continue to expand my world. I forgot about the first lover I took after my divorce; the one who kissed me gently and set me free to go and find myself in California. I stopped thanking Boston for the parts of myself I first embraced there: the curious, the sensual, the irreverent.

I’m not willing to forget the worst parts. But I’m beginning to understand that surviving means more than carrying the pain of this place. It means giving myself permission to remember the rest.

The Dirty Divine is part of that remembering.

It’s a space where I’ll write about spirituality, sexuality, gender, grief, and faith, with humility, conviction, and care. We’ll explore theory, scripture, social and cultural trends, and dive deeper into the personal. I’ll write about divinity and desire, about womanist thought and theological interpretation, and about what it means to return to a city, and to a self, you once left behind.

I’m not returning to tie a bow around the past or to sanitize what was always gonna be a little dirty. But I am returning.

To remember.

To understand.

And to be transformed again.

The Dirty Divine is a newly conceived, evolving space and I’d love to hear what resonates with you.

If something in this essay moved you, or if you know someone who has returned to a place that transformed them, I’d be so grateful if you shared this piece with someone who might appreciate it.

Thank you for being here.
😘
Kayci