I'm a Jo, through and through

“I want to do something splendid...something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it and mean to astonish you all someday.” 
- Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

I’m named after Beth March, the third daughter in Louisa May Alcott’s timeless, telling novel, Little Women (1868). Like Beth, I play the piano and have an immense love for furry creatures. And, like her, for most of my life, I have been perfectly content right where I am, surrounded by my favorite people: my loving family. 

I wish I could continue the comparisons, but I see little of myself in the gentle-hearted, caring, sacrificial, selfless Beth. She’s one of my favorite literary characters and her death, no matter how fictional, guts me every time I read it or see it portrayed on screen. 

Beth is my continuous inspiration, both as her namesake and as another little woman trying with all earnest to just do well and right in this world. 

But I’m a Jo, through and through. 

I saw the most recent Little Women remake tonight with my Mimi. I love crying in a movie theater. It feels an awful lot like going to therapy. I’m not one to be embarrassed or self conscious of my natural emotions, so I don’t feel the need to wipe away tears or pretend they aren’t happening. It’s a moving and comforting act for me, one that I’ve participated in dozens of times in my life.

And in this particular screening, I cried for two full hours. My heart squeezed and my head raced as the always adventurous, forever persistent, gleefully independent Jo begins to listen to the rumbling in the bottom of her belly: we can be strong and soft. We can love and let go. We are complex beings who can have it all.

Bear with me on this one, folks. There are few moments in which I’ve felt so...seen. Many times in my life, I’ve been told I’m intimidating (that’s sneaky language letting me know I don’t smile or cater to the egos of a certain gender enough). People have revealed their jealousy of me as I galavant across the country (and, in some very lucky cases, the world). I’ve ended relationships because being with that person wasn’t as fulfilling as writing another poem, making another wreath, dreaming another dream.

Like Jo, I was looking for good, strong words that meant something, not a warm body to build a home next to. Not a fleeting rendezvous that didn’t amount to the same kind of unbelievable standards I placed on my artistic pursuits. 

I grew up perfectly content with the people already around me. I can’t believe how blessed I am to have my siblings in my life. My happily ever after was to do what I love and stay near them. 

In recent years, I’ve experienced the uncomfortable and somewhat haunting reality of my precious siblings growing up and moving on. Oh, how my heart has ached, longing for the blissful days of jumping out of trees onto our trampoline.

I’ve felt left behind, selfishly. I watched them fall in and out of love. I watched them break (and been broken with them). I watched as their happily ever afters came true, filled with wonder, merry, and delight. 

I’ve been elated for my sweet siblings. As I’ve showered them with support, compassion, and fondness over the years, of course I hope they would find others to do the same for them. 

I’ve had dear friends drop off the face of the earth for their significant others. It’s a tale as old as time, really. As soon as a love interest appears stage right, the friend group falls by the wayside. I don’t blame people for that and I can’t say with complete confidence I’ve never done the same. It’s romantic and enticing to be consumed by a passionate love, but I have wondered why we value that type of love over our platonic or familial relationships. 

I don’t let myself think this way often. There’s too much to be done, as far as I’m concerned. Too many books to write, films to make, and stories to tell for me to be stuck in a rut because I’m not in love. At least, I’m not in romantic love with some stranger who can’t make me ugly laugh and doesn’t understand my moods.

That’s probably what all of this boils down to: I sometimes wonder if I’ve missed the window of opportunity for finding a Friedrich Bhaer. I don’t mean to be mopey, but if I’ve learned anything from sharing my deepest vulnerabilities with the Internet, it’s that I’m not alone in my uncomfortable musings. I know there are others like me who prioritize family, career, hobbies, and the art of wandering over finding true love (or figuring out if it actually exists). 

I shouldn’t say that. I know unconditional love is as real as the ocean is deep. It looks and feels different for all of us. Love exists in an infinite amount of dressings. It’s my dad doing my laundry when he knows I’m still adjusting to these new long hours at work. It’s my niece saying “you’re my friend” and hugging my leg. It’s my sister checking in. It’s my brother dropping his day to help with mine. It’s my mom just being my mom. It’s that feeling of unmistakable, irreplaceable pride in just knowing these people I love so dearly and fully. 

All of this rambling is to say that my kinship with Jo has always felt a little magical. In the latest film, there’s a scene in which Jo confesses that though she is strong (maybe even intimidating) and fervent in her purpose, she isn’t immune to loneliness. It was cathartic to watch that scene and realize I’ve been putting on a bit of a show myself. 

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”

Happy all alone.

And now I sit here, sobbing into my keyboard, the biggest embodiment of a tired cliche, pleading with the world with a heart burst wide open. I’ve been immensely happy all alone. I’ve found myself over and over again. I’ve dabbled and created, played and pursued, wandered and returned. 

Now, I wonder, loudly, if I could ever love someone with the same intensity in which I’ve loved the journey thus far. If I could ever open my chest just a little and let someone take a peek. If I could make room to give the same love I’ve embodied for finding those strong words to a person who could love me just as fully.

To all those who feel like a Jo, it’s ok that we form relationships a little differently. Every Beth needs her Jo. Love will find us in ways we don’t expect. And we’ll write a story about it with an abundance of beautiful, strong words.