This is hard. I know I have to let go but there is a part of me that isn’t quite ready. I want to hold on.
Sixteen. The magical age where kids can learn to drive, the gateway to freedom. Theirs and mine. Having been the family chauffeur for 25 years, I am looking forward to our youngest getting his license and handing over the keys to the car.
No more waiting in cold parking lots at 10pm in the dark of winter. Gone will be the days of rushing out of work to jump into the car to race to the school where I peel in just in time to pick up said child and put pedal to the metal to get back home just in time to turn around for the next activity.
“Go! Go! Go!” “Get your gear together” “Do you have your water bottle?” “No, I don’t know where you put it“. “Hurry up! Dinner is ready!” These are the sounds of a crazy person aka…. a mom.
Food is quickly inhaled. Jump back in the car and we fly down the hill. We’re coming in hot with seconds to spare. The treadmill of my life is running fast. I hold on so I don’t fall off.
Before we get too far, I do need to clarify that the reason I drive so much is because I love an active kid. I am super supportive of school activities and more. I do wish that we lived a little closer so that he could walk. It’s 5km distance between our house and most activities and no public transit. Also, it’s uphill. Tough to carry a hockey bag. I throw on the chauffeur cap and go.
This all will change with the freedom to drive. I delight in images of waving goodbye to fast and furious. Peace and quiet go nicely together over dinner and a glass of white wine. I might even see my husband across the table and remember his name.
To achieve freedom, there is just one thing in the way. Said son (Owen) must learn to drive which means sitting in the driver’s seat, taking the wheel and having control of the gas pedal. I sit in the passenger seat and wonder if today is the day I almost die. I hold on. Letting go isn’t easy.
Here are a few confessions. Owen is our youngest. At sixteen, he seems younger than the other two kids. This is completely not true but, in my eyes, he can’t be old enough to drive. I stall. I let him drive every once in a while. I also put him in drivers’ education which is a two-day course followed by eight hours of labs online. Another stall tactic to him taking the wheel. It’s the struggle to be willing to let go.
Four months have passed. I can’t stall any longer. I only wish it was back to the days where he was learning to bike. Remember those days? You let go and they wobbled down the road and the worst that could happen is scraped knees.
I have not been the best example. I have felt that posted speed limits were more guidelines than rules. Suddenly, being in the passenger seat, 50km per hour (30 mph) feels like warp speed.
We persevere. I try and remain calm. I point out when he might want to be a little more in the middle of the lane, he says he is. There are few instances where because he is learning a stick shift that we stall. I try to yell quietly “FIRST! YOU HAVE TO FIND FIRST”. Not helpful when we are in the middle of the intersection. It’s messy. I try and trust him. He’s not fooled. He notices that while I say, “you’re doing great“, I am clutching the arm rest for dear life. He looks at me. I blush but still hold on.
If I let go, he will be gone. This is the dance that I dread. Keen on freedom but oh how I will miss the moments together. Yes, the shuttle driving is tedious but it also when we connect, when we talk and catch up. For almost a quarter century, I have been the lead role in my children’s lives. I would call myself the “conductor”, they might lean towards the descriptive of “dictator”. Whatever. The point is, I was in the centre of their lives, and I felt useful. Giving them their freedom is letting go and then who am I?
The balance of knowing when to hold on and when to let go is hard and permeates into many crevices of my life. I tend to hold on longer than I should. Letting go often makes my heart break.
I am grateful for digital cameras. I now have a database of moments, visual placeholders of time that allow me to visit over and over again to relive feelings that I never want to forget. When I look at photos of Owen, it’s hard to believe the journey. Those chubby cheeks, bath time rituals, the slow stretching from toddler to teen. The journey of life.
It’s a bittersweet journey. Cheering at milestones that mark the moments that will only lead to the time when he is ready to let go. This is hard. I know I have to let go but there is a part of me that isn’t quite ready.
“You fight to hold on. You fight to let go”
Unknown
And it’s not just kids. It’s everything and everyone. Jobs, careers, opportunities friendships, relationships, family and more. It’s the tension of life. A balance of knowing when the tides need to change. Sometimes I time it just right, other times, I miss the window. I often wonder what I have missed by holding on when I should have let go. The same can be said when I have let go and maybe I should have held on. It’s complicated.
If I could wish one thing today it would be that I could turn back time to live more fully in the moments that mattered. I blinked and then it was over. Time marched on. The hand that I held slips away. Our fingertips brush gently. We let go and say goodbye. It’s feelings of grief which feel harder because of how much I love you.
And there it is. The days are long, the years are short. Endings that lead to new beginnings. I regret that sometimes I drove so fast that I missed much of the scenery. I forgot to pack a picnic so that when a beautiful landscape presented itself, I could stop the car and soak it all in. Likely it’s impossible to stop time but perhaps in my next beginning, I can slow it down. Not rush. Really listen. Pay attention. Let the people that I love know that I see them, hear them and value them. If I could do one thing better in this next chapter, I would want the people in my life to feel that I was fully present.
And as I turn the page, maybe there is time and space to check back with those that I thought I lost and let go. Perhaps, we could check in and see if there was a second wind in which we could fly. Let go of what has held us apart.
Here’s to new beginnings, new chapters and believing that it’s never too late to jump.
The bags were packed, not to be carried, but to be set down and left behind. When I took that first step, I have never felt more free.
I had a picture in my head of how my life was “supposed” to be and when I looked in the mirror, it was anything but. I thought by 50, I would have braved the crocodiles and somehow emerged onto safe ground which was defined by accolades that I could hang a sense of relief on.
What kind of accolades? I’m going to go with a fairly average vision; successful career, comfortable retirement, healthy savings, good family and friends and maybe a house that had a linen closet, more than one bathroom and possibly even a place to iron my clothes other than my bed. I saw myself as stylish; owning clothes that said “dry clean only” instead of a wide variety of items that require a mere 5 minutes in the dryer with a damp towel. My husband and I would grow gracefully old; him looking great wearing khakis and a blue button down shirt and me in my white and blue linens. I see the flaw. I think that my life aspirations were modeled after a retirement ad that I saw on TV…..
The Dream…..The Reality….No need to dry clean…
As I hit my 50’s and certainly what most would describe as a mid-life meltdown, I found myself taking stock of life and looking at where I had fallen short. What have I done versus what others have done? The expectations that I had of myself and what I had wanted to achieve were certainly less than and my disappointment in myself was was deep and I felt shame that somehow I had fucked it all up based on poor decisions.
I started writing this blog in April 2020 with the ambition of documenting the journey of what it was to fall apart and have the courage to start again. I envisioned a process that had eloquent insight into what it is to muddle through midlife despite things being not exactly as one dreamed and being able to rise.
I saw 2021 as the Revival Tour where I rocked out on stage and sang HALLELUJAH with relief at having made it to the other side.
I enjoyed all my new paths of exploration. I took up gardening, raising pigs and chickens. I bought a mountain bike, went back to school and got back into hiking, camping and canoeing. I took on new work opportunities, started an exercise program and even joined NOOM.
While I was keen on food security, I sucked at gardening. Don’t hate me but after two years, I can honestly say that I do not find love in the dirt. All spring and summer, I watched people show their amazing gardens and I so wanted to be like them. I wanted to dig in the earth and find a spiritual sense peace and beam with pride as a I served a “garden fresh” salad to the table. Unfortunately, that’s not me. Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t like cooking. I’m not even a fan of food. Why did I think I would love to garden? I have never felt it an honour to feed and nourish my offspring; I sort of saw it as retaliation for something I did in a past life.
I turned my attention to mountain biking. I bought a bike in hopes that an equipment upgrade would enhance my performance. I did improve. Slightly. I just could not find the love of grinding up hills while sucking wind only to risk life and limb on the downhill. I did enjoy being out with my son and husband but as a mountain “braker”, I’m not sure they loved the outing the same way I did.
Hiking? Canoeing? OK. I’m keen as long as I don’t have to go with my family but I sure did like those little meals that come in a bag.
My lumps and bumps are still there. I had some losses but I worked it out that my losses came at a cost of approximately $37 / pound. It was a good program, just not for me and we had to break up. We had what I call some “creative differences” over how to count calories.
So there you have it. I won’t even bore you with how to revive a travel business during a pandemic. There was a brief glimpse of hope before the door slammed shut once again. Surely one of those things that I started would have been the catalyst that would lead to joy and yet…. I just felt the same.
Before
After
All my talk about “jumping” and courage and trying to be brave was all stuff best left to inspirational t-shirts and podcasts. It wasn’t working and I felt like a fraud. The mic dropped, the bus broke down and the tour got cancelled.
I believe in hope and with this belief, I was going to give it one more go to reboot my connection to life and getting back on tour. I joined seven of my dearest friends on Saturday September 18th to rappel down a 23 story building in Vancouver, BC to help raise funds for children and families with disabilities. A big jump for sure.
I had done this before in 2019 but I did it with my eyes closed. No lie but honestly, can you blame me? The hardest part is climbing over the edge of the building and trusting that the ropes will hold. The vision of the robes breaking and free falling to a messy death is real.
In 2019, my Super Hero partner was not only an inspiration then but remains an inspiration now. She really does leap over tall buildings and throws her arms out wide to embrace the experience. She kept saying to me “Shelley, just look at the view!”. My fear of heights is often paralyzing and it took all I had to unclench my eyelids and take a brief peek at the view. That millisecond glance was nice but my goal was to quite simply “arrive alive“.
And while I was glad to find firm footing at the end of that day, a part of me yearned to do it again and stretch that comfort zone. When my gal pals all signed up for 2021, it was a no brainer that I would join them.
It was an amazing morning. The weather looked good, the skies were bright and the gale force winds that had ravaged the city the day before seemed to be quiet. Everyone was nervous in their own way yet we all shared a commitment to overcoming our fears in pursuit of a great cause (www.eastersealsbcy.ca). One by one, we headed to the roof, each with our own narrative. It was amazing, in fact, it was a metaphor for life. Each one of us lived the same experience but differently and in that, I found inspiration.
Some of us were happy to just get over the ledge and find our way down while others took to the sky like birds in the wind. My Super Hero partner from 2019 was as magnificent as ever and continued to take in the views and live every moment of being up so high. Another friend found so much joy that she looked like someone from Cirque du Soleil the way she somersaulted in the sky. I was in awe watching her find joy in the journey and without fear or hesitation. What is even more remarkable is that her real life journey has given her scars and yet, in that moment, she chose to soar.
For me, while I did not use the opportunity to try out for Cirque du Soleil, I was happy that my Super Hero friends inspired me to open my eyes, to love the journey and to even let go of the rope and feel secure enough to dance with delight at being able to push back the fears of “what if” and trust that all would be well.
My friends, my heroes….
It was a day of celebration. Many other friends and family came to cheer and I am delighted to say that thanks to tremendous support and generosity, our team raised a little under $15,000. We are stronger together and together, we make a difference.
There wasn’t ever any question that I wouldn’t do the jump. Let’s be honest…..how does one write a blog called “And Then I Jumped” and not actually do it? I needed to fix the bus and get back on tour.
I returned home but no matter my efforts, I couldn’t get the bus to start.
This is the hard part where I tell you what happened and why I stopped writing. I fell down a really dark hole and couldn’t get out. I had this idea of what life would be like for me and I didn’t measure up. I felt that I had failed myself and my potential.
While I had always been quite mean to myself, in October, the voices in my head became vicious. The rhetoric was awful and just a barrage of vile. The monsters who I call Shame and Blame had a firm hold on me. All day they kept yelling at me, reminding me of all my failures, hitting me with memories of when I could have made a different choice. I sat there and took it, feeling like I deserved no better than the beating I was receiving.
Once a day, my monsters let me out of the hole. I could pop up for just long enough to make dinner for the family and ask everyone how they were doing but right afterwards, I was dragged back down to ensure that I didn’t get to bed without further feeling like I was worth nothing.
To escape, I did everything I could to numb the pain. 5pm would come along and I would count the minutes until I could go to bed and find reprieve. Sure that worked but at 3am, they found me and dragged me back down that hole of pain and the beatings and berating would start again. Every reminder of being less than; like glass cutting skin.
I was down in that dark hole for a long time and to be deeply honest, endings looked easier than beginnings and to this, I gave true contemplation. I felt the anguish that my life was hopeless and likely without purpose. I can honestly say that I felt that I was a waste of space. And yet, somewhere in that darkness, a small slice of light came through and the dream of being back on tour held me back from a final jump.
H.O.P.E Hold On. Pain Ends
It was just enough light and I called a friend. I knew she had faced monsters and could possibly understand. She put everything aside and listened. I asked her not to counter anything I said with something positive. I needed her to hear what the monsters were saying. I needed to confess what the voices were yelling. Even though she was on the phone, I felt as though she was holding my hand and she listened with her heart. Grace. In that moment, I was granted grace.
When all was said and done, I asked her how she makes the changes she makes. I asked how and where do I make the jump? “Shelley, it doesn’t have to be a jump. It’s a bridge. You look to where you want to go and you take one step at a time”
A bridge. A connection to tomorrow. Suddenly, I knew where I wanted to go.
Crossing a bridge took more courage than making a jump but if I hadn’t practiced jumping, I wouldn’t have been able to take the first step. I was scared. I was scared to own the life that I actually wanted. What if it wasn’t enough? What if I wasn’t enough? And here’s the rub. Living life safe was only making me miserable. I was too busy living the life I thought I should live based on the comparisons of what others were doing. I tried to be someone I wasn’t and in that place of pretending, it’s why I could never measure up.
So here’s what I did. I packed my bags with all those mean words. I crammed them all in and didn’t leave anything out. “Loser, failure, inadequate, stupid, idiot, incompetent” and more were packed. It actually took two suitcases and they were heavy.
The bags were packed, not to be carried, but to be set down and left behind. When I took that first step, I have never felt more free.
People asked, “why didn’t you call me?” “Why didn’t you let me know?”
The answer is because I loved you too much. I would never want anyone to be in that dark hole, to face the monsters or feel the cold and take the beatings. It isn’t a place that you invite people to go. It is a prison with a torture chamber not a cafe with lovely lattes and warm chocolate chip cookies.
The other answer is because I didn’t know how to let go of my pain without falling apart. I was afraid. What if I let go and the ropes failed and I fell to the ground? I wasn’t yet strong enough to open the wounds. But please know this, I knew you were there. You were the light.
I share this because I made it through and if you are struggling, please know that even thought it might feel like you are alone, you aren’t and there is hope. I say that sincerely and speak from experience.
It took time (a lot of time!) but I let go of what I thought it was “supposed” to be and am now living who I want to be. I’ve also let go of comparisons and “labels” that weren’t helpful to me. I am married and have stopped calling myself a “wife“. All that did was conjure up images of loving to cook and clean which just made me feel guilty because I really hate that shit. Same thing with being a “mother“. I have had children who I love and adore but my image of what a “mother” is comes from outdated narratives and none of them involve dancing on tables while singing out loud.
My impressions of what roles “should be” weren’t my definitions. I borrowed them from other people and tried to make them fit; like trying to fit into jeans that were three sizes too small. No wonder I hurt.
My constant comparison was only crushing my own potential but now I feel free. I am who I am and I can own that; all of it. Even the messy bits. I don’t have to fit what isn’t mine or that which is destined for me. There is no one else who is meant to live my life. That spot has been saved for me. Copy and paste is done and with that, the mean voices are now quiet.
So dear readers. The bus is back on tour and Revival feels amazing. I hope if you are carrying baggage that is holding you back that you let it go. If you find yourself in dark places, find a hand that you can hold. Look ahead and see what you want and feel what it might feel like to take that first step. Letting go of fear has changed my life. For the first time ever, I have absolute confidence in what comes next. It doesn’t mean that I am not afraid, it just means that I feel more brave than scared. I have found my own passions and they are bringing me joy. The release of my labels and making comparisons is something I wish I could describe. I can only share that it feels like I am finally free.
To all those that love, thank you. Thank you for holding my hand and for seeing things that I couldn’t see for myself. Thank you for being patient and kind. You were the stars when I needed the light.
With love to all and with my love, my hope that you all find joy whether you take the first step or make the jump.
Lately I have been thinking about taking up running again. Key word is “thinking”. When I think more about it, I think it will likely hurt. In fact, if I took up running, some might confuse my pace with walking even though I could be pumping my arms very hard. If I think past the pain, I imagine myself running with joy and I sense of “I can”.
It makes me wonder what stops me from running. Well, I’d have to put on shoes. I would also need proper running shorts which would lead to finding a shirt that fit which would then cause me to wonder if I should bring water. How long would I run and what route would I take? Could I run somewhere where it was flat and I wouldn’t run into anyone I know?
So many questions. Likely I should just do what I always do and go for a walk. Clearly I am not equipped to once again try to run.
What raised the thought about running was watching the Tokyo Olympics. It was particularly exciting watching the women’s soccer gold medal final; Canada versus Sweden. This Olympics, the women in their Canadian red were using their past bronze accomplishment as the step to the top podium level in hopes of wearing gold. They were playing for the win.
The game was fraught with tension. Two talented teams battling in every play. No one let up and after two halves, the game was tied leading to 30 minutes of extra time. While pundits commented that the Swedes dominated the game in the first half, the Canadian women became warriors and raged forward to battle. They took chances to make shots and plays that kept them in the game. There were moments that could have been called as penalties but the refs said “play on”.
After 30 minutes of extra time the scoreboard didn’t move. Stalemate. Watching the players was exhilarating. Faces beat red from exertion, sweat dripped off their brows that were furrowed with deep determination. Feet clashed while fighting for the ball and the war for the win raged forcing a shoot out.
You could not help moving to the edge of your seat and watching the final moments. The goal tenders taking their place to defend the net. The players focused on the ball, looking to find the net. What must it have been like? The pressure; the knowing that “in the net” would rouse national roars of ecstatic pride while making a miss might result in defeat that would result in national loss. Mental fortitude replaced questions of “can I do it?” with “I’m giving it my best”. All deserve a standing ovation for being brave and courageous and standing in the arena.
The shoot out allowed for five shots by each team. At the end of the shootout, the game remain tied leading to sudden death. The sixth Swedish player took her turn and was denied. Canada stepped up. Time stood still, the silence was deafening with the only sound being that of beating hearts, thumping with anticipation. Deep breath. The world watched in slow motion, watching as that final shot saw the ball hit the back of the net. There was an eruption of joy! The scrappy Canadian team that fought with grit and determination won the gold!
And while Canada cheered, the Swedish team collapsed in defeat. To come so close and be denied despite valiant and magnificent effort. This was not winning versus losing; it was just the difference of one goal and I have to believe that world cheered for the chance to see two teams play with abandon and leave everything they had on the field. They gave it every effort and more.
The 2021 Olympics have given us plenty of moments in which we have witnessed humanity at its finest. Competitors that have bowed with grace and extended kindness and empathy. The arena is for those who are bold enough to take their place and give with great devotion, understanding that daring greatly comes with the risk of failing mightily.
When I sit on the couch and contemplate running, it is the equivalent of sitting in the cheap seats in the arena. I continue to mull over that what stops me is my long list of excuses and a dialogue that reams “I can’t because…..”. I lead my conversation with excuses. Poor ones at that.
Over this past year I have lamented loss and grieved at what no longer is. I saw things as “endings” and have worked to reframe that to expand to consider “endings are just beginnings in disguise” and I used a doorway to depict life as a my metaphor. Doorways have frames that lead from one room to another. I moved from a lifetime career and years of community dedication into a new room with a different door. In this room, I tried to reinvent myself which at first blush was rather charming but if you looked closely, I just changed my socks and wore the same mindset and accessorized with “can’t” on my t-shirt.
Since I didn’t feel I had much of a career left, I embraced my other role of wife and mother. I took June Cleavor as my role model as to what “mothers and wives do”. June was famous in the 1957 sitcom “Leave it to Beaver”. She wore high heel shoes and a pearl necklace when she faithfully cooked dinner night after night. She never raised her voice (only her eyebrows) and her house was a testament to tidy beyond reproach. She seemed happy as did her family. Despite the fact that this was a scripted show and likely written by men, I still took her on as my model. For months, I have been cooking, cleaning, shopping, organizing and trying to fit into my new room framed by the doorway built on 1950 values.
I put my endings and beginnings on a linear line. Lately, I have wondered if endings and beginnings could be more like a roller coaster where you ride up with anticipation and then around with excitement? I am feeling that my linear line could be changed to a circle. My linear line led me to the “end of the line” where I had the choice to fall off the cliff or make the jump. My new imagery and metaphor is no longer the door, I want to be on the roller coaster and enjoy the daring loops that come with the ride while waving my hands in the air.
I have searched all my drawers and the marriage / motherhood handbook is no where to be found. Where did I believe that being a “good wife and mother” meant being a martyr? Who said making lunch and dinner while shining the bathtub was a sign of love? I have a husband of almost 27 years, a 24 year old, a 22 year old and a 15 year old. I thought love was making them lunch. My new gift of love is now to let them make their own lunches and empower them to pick up the broom and give a mop.
When the kids were young, they needed me to look after them in a certain way and that ride is over. They don’t need that anymore and have actually been trying to tell me that. They need me to show them that a mother’s love is not bottled in cleaning detergents or mayonaise. My love is helping them live to get into their own arena and to do that, I need to be an example.
The light within shines when we turn it on. I have been secretly afraid that if I embraced the desires of the whispers of my heart that somehow I might fail my family and my perception of what I felt I “owed” them in my roles as wife and mother. My linear line served as a chain that was connected to perceptions that were bolted to the door.
A “wife” and a “mother” are nouns. Not verbs. I am only failing myself when I don’t listen to the whispers of my heart. If I voiced them out loud, I would bet that my family would become my biggest fans and eagerly jump on the roller coaster with me. I just have to ask.
I was afraid that endings might mean closing the door and I was afraid of what I might lose. I lost something anyway. I lost a sense of myself.
This is a new discovery that was awakened in me as I watched those young women play as warriors where their families and friends cheered them on.
In my efforts to move forward, I am so excited to change the shape of my dreams. “All or nothing” is about the effort I give to things I might want to try. It isn’t what has to happen with my relationships. I can start asking for help. We can plan as a collective unit in our family; “who is making dinner on what nights” is a good place to start. New conversations that include us all; not just me being the lone voice that reads from a 1950’s script. I’ll bet I might become someone more fun but I have to vocalize the whispers. Answering the calls of my heart’s desire doesn’t require me to abandon my family. It requires that I involve them.
I am so much more enthusiastic about my future. I know, there might be some out there who raise their eyebrows at someone like me who lived in the cheap seats because of antiquated thinking. It’s not that I always hid the light, it’s just I tended to shine it on those that I loved. What I see now is that a bright light shines wide and covers the whole stage when it is turned on. Suddenly, I realize that I have all that I need to start to run.
To you my beautiful people, I’m sorry I lived small and thought by doing so, that made you happy. I see now that you wanted me to join you on your adventures and live tall in my own dreams and ambitions. And like what happened when you would stumble and fall, I would kiss it better. I am comforted to know that you will do the same.
Here’s to changing shape, shining bright and getting into the arena and starting to run and more…..
With love,
Shelley
Me, my husband Wayne, Megan (22), Owen (15), Aiden (24) and Hobbes the dog. We all can grow strong; we aren’t meant to stay small.
She knew what it was to savour moments, to give pause to sunsets and rainbows, to lean into hugs and kiss with kindness and compassion. She knew the value in everything and everyone. Even just a mere few weeks before her passing, she was still running. She never, ever quit living.
I’ve recently taken up mediation. My husband Wayne is a bit critical of my practice. He says that he doesn’t think people snore when they meditate. Whatever Wayne.
I’ve been looking for a way to ease some of the anxiety that I have been feeling lately. While Netflix and a glass of wine were lovely, it was more an escape route than the path to enlightenment. Shame.
Lately, I have been feeling agitated. My stomach is in knots and the sense of unease about everything just won’t go away. I have a million things “on the go” but nothing is feeling fluid. Life feels chaotic, like volts of electricity that won’t ground. According to Dr. Google, what I seem to be feeling is anxiety.
Likely I should cut myself some slack. Coming out of COVID was like being locked in the house for over a year and opening the door to suddenly find a million new fresh starts. The world was so bright that I had to shut the door. It was too soon. I needed to let my eyes adjust. For months my biggest accomplishment was getting dressed before bed. Having to get out and get engaged in living was more complicated than choosing what to wear (even if it was just choosing which pair of black yoga pants…..). This new world felt overwhelming and with so many sudden changes, I needed to close the door and catch my breath.
Once I had a second wind, I could open the door to face the changes that had occurred. In response, I applied to go back to school, took on new work positions to supplement the COVID loss of income and leaned in to new learning curves. While that felt manageable, albeit scary, the optimism of a post COVID world was quickly dulled with the arrival of wildfires that currently plague us. While our town is not in imminent danger, those around us are either on evacuation order or on evacuation alert. It’s hot, dry and so smoky that on some days, it’s hard to determine if it is dawn or dusk. Honestly, can’t we just get a break? Bloody hell. A world pandemic, social and economic upheaval, unequivocal losses and now I find myself in the middle of the world that is burning at a rapid pace. Hell has not frozen over, it’s just taking over.
When I feel stress and uncertainty, I clean. Somehow I drank the Koolaid that said if the house is clean house, life will be ok. I’ve totally tipped in my obsession. I’m sure that if I missed a day, the mop and broom would come find me. Since I don’t pay the stove much attention, I know I won’t be missed there. The bathroom might pipe up and wonder my whereabouts but my family? They would breathe a collective sigh of relief as I am driving them crazy with my nitpick nagging about insignificant dirt and dust.
I’m seeking a sense of calm to put my anxiousness at bay. To this end, I took a walk in the woods. I was in awe. The forest was a castle that shone in stillness and the silence. Nothing moved. The loudest sound was a lone mosquito. I saw what inner peace must feel like. I closed my eyes and inhaled, hoping I could internalize what nature seemed to find so effortless.
What I have come to recently recognize is that all these new things and changes in my life have caused me to feel flummoxed. I was on a set path and then the world changed leaving my new landscape to feel unfamiliar and uncertain. The changes are actually freedom in disguise but since I haven’t found the guidebook to learn how to navigate this new landscape, I have chosen to hide behind the door and deepen my friendship with my mop and broom. I see why I snore and watch Netflix. It’s easier and less messy. Denial is neat and tidy.
Small problem. I have unwittingly been “numbing” rather than living. I was jolted into this revelation on July 19th when my sister told me that one of her very dear friends lost her battle to cancer. In that moment, the sunset dimmed and the universe shone less brightly. I never knew Susan but many others I know did. Her death has left a gaping hole in lives, hearts and in the world at large. Watching the collective grief was heart wrenching and the question raised over and over again was “why?”. Why are the very best taken so soon? It feels so unjust and incredibly unfair.
Susan was described as “an effervescent light in the life of everyone she met“. She had been a world traveler, a lover of languages and a consummate adventurer. She loved those around her with full commitment and deep love. She was a devoted mother, wife and friend. She lived life with a unique sense of fullness that inspired many.
In 2011 she was diagnosed with breast cancer. As someone who was built “strong“, she didn’t miss a beat. She founded a running group and fundraised in the annual “Run for the Cure“. Her fellow runners named a particular steep hill “Susan’s Hill” in recognition of her grit and determination to overcome everything and live life fully. She was inspirational. People would follow her example and “storm the hill” hoping to capture her spirit of courage and commitment. When Susan ran, she ran like she lived; with everything she had and more.
With breast cancer behind her, she focused on all that was important to her. But cancer is insidious and refuses to lose. Less than a year ago, she was diagnosed with brain cancer. Once again, there was a hill to be taken by storm and by God, she did that with everything and then some. While her path to fight breast cancer was awful, brain cancer was cruel and relentless. Susan committed to fighting the good fight. She lived each and every day with fullness, passion and rigour. She knew what it was to savour moments, to give pause to sunsets and rainbows, to lean into hugs and kiss with kindness and compassion. She knew the value in everything and everyone. Even just a mere few weeks before her passing, she was still running. She never, ever quit living.
Whereas I have been hiding with my mop and my broom, Susan was living “despite of“. Her challenges would prove to be insurmountable but she never let that stop her from living her best life. She looked at life with passion and she faced her obstacles with an inner courage that would make the mightiest of titans stop in their tracks. Susan continued to be her best self and make everyday a beautiful day. At her celebration of life, she was described as “the joy and sparkle in every room. Her laugh was all-encompassing and her bubbling warm light suffused every interaction.“
Susan lived “despite of“. She took her hill by storm. She was relentless in her conviction that life mattered.
While Susan’s hill was steep, I think we each have a hill that takes different shapes. It’s not the distance or the steepness that matters, rather, the enthusiasm and courage that we bring when facing our hill. To “storm” is to live despite of and to be able to rise above that which chooses to stand as a challenge, a potential opponent. Susan proved that life is short and within our span, we all have choices on how we want to live and even how we die.
Susan died at the age of 51 and leaves behind two beautiful children, a loving husband an extended family along with countless numbers of friends that will always feel blessed to have been a part of her world. She shared her magic making sure that everyone was touched. She made people feel seen and heard. What a remarkable gift. Her passing feels incredibly unjust given her exceptional nature to make a difference in the lives around her. “WHY HER?” keeps murmuring through my mind. It was obvious that she was so effortlessly herself and in return, the world loved her for it.
June 11, 1970 – July 19, 2021
While I never knew her, I know that I have been changed by her legacy of how she lived life. I realize that while I have acted on some of my ambitions, there are many others that I have wrapped in blankets and folded them into the closet in hopes that I would forget about them. What I have come to learn is that my sense of anxiety and unease is not about what is external. My unease is the knowing that the life that I have tried to keep in the closet is yelling to be let out. I have a hill that demands to be stormed. What I have been doing is practicing on flat ground. There is more that demands my attention.
I can choose to ignore this calling and find new ways to numb or I can live like Susan and live life more fully. I have been afraid that my secret yearnings will cause disruption but maybe that is exactly what I need. I can do better. It’s not my ambition and dreams that need to be packed away in the closet, it’s my excuses. My floors can endure a film of muck but my relationship with my husband could do with a spring cleaning. The same could be said for my relationships with my family, many of my friends and colleagues. I can also dust off those dreams that I tried to leave behind and bring them back to life.
The past year has brought so many changes and upheavals. I felt a bit beat. And while I have risen and faced obstacles, I see that there is more ahead. I want to rise higher, reach further and find my authenticity that resonates as real. I don’t want to hide any longer. Half measures are just that. It’s the bigger jump that I want to make. And, of all my ambitions, I hope the one I honour most is the one to live “despite of” . Life offers no promises or surety except that it will be unpredictable. What is constant is how I choose to meet the challenges and how I choose to live and love. In honour of Susan, I vow to storm the hill.
I am not fabulous when it comes to being social. Put me on a stage with a podium and a speech…..no problem. Put me in a room with strangers and I will need months to prepare. I’m awkward and I tend to say things that make people think “did she just say that?”.
I have to look hard for social cues. Before I go out to events, I browse for safe social topics that I can draw upon if needed. Cue cards. I’m a little clunky, somewhat stiff and feel intimidated with crowds. Once I get going it’s ok, it’s the starting that brings out hives.
This is why I am grateful for my friendships. The people in my life that see me for all of me. My sister is one of my best friends and she often holds my hands through situations that she knows are difficult for me. She is someone who I consider to be “lucky”. She walks into a room and is sunshine. She brightens everyone’s day and effortlessly engages with people. She makes it look easy and fun! She has gently suggested that I might find things less difficult if I don’t start a conversation with “how do you think we can achieve world peace?” Good advice.
I love my people who love me despite of me and because of me. I feel safe and accepted. Friendship is a soft space when the world gets rough. It is a sacred gift that I treasure and hold onto with all my heart.
Nine months ago, I lost a friend and I was left in pieces. I’m not over it. I don’t know if I will ever get “over” it. I still ache at the loss and the emptiness I feel. I walk through each day feeling as though a piece of me is missing. There are so many times when I go to pick up the phone to call and share something and then realize that they are not in my life anymore. They are gone. Except, I still see them across the room. They are not gone, they are just not wanting to be in my life. They have new friends. I have been replaced and each time I see them, what I thought had healed, breaks open.
I feel loss and I am grieving. I can’t imagine what people go through when a loved one dies. How do people muster the courage to even get up in the morning after losing someone that they love? My God. That is strength. To get up every day and face the world while missing a piece of themselves. Nothing is the same. Christmas, birthdays or just passing by a restaurant and thinking, “we used to be there together“. It’s those moments where there is a clenching of the stomach as the waves of pain start to rise and take hold. It must take every ounce of energy to stay standing and wait for the feeling to subside. Does it subside? I don’t think so. I think when our stomach starts to clench, we look for a place for our pain to hide and try and keep it out of sight. Pain can be messy. It’s why we invented cupboards; to tuck things out of sight.
My friend was very special to me. I felt we were kindred spirits in our awkwardness and we could expose our insecurities and be loved “despite”. I guess I was wrong. I will never forget the day that they called me and everything fell apart. I won’t bore you with the details except to say that I was called out for being several terrible things. A few of the highlights were being told I was “toxic” and a “bully” and I make a fool of myself and people roll their eyes at me behind my back. There were other things and it all brought me to my knees.
For the record, there were some things that were said that definitely need to be said. I wasn’t myself and hadn’t been for a few months. I was staggering under effects and impacts of COVID and didn’t realize that I had tilted out of balance. There was room to re-correct, I just wonder why I had to be hit so hard in the face and then punched so fiercely in the stomach? I thought we were friends. I thought we shared a safe space.
I cried all afternoon and into the week-end. I called friends and colleagues to get some additional feedback. In a single blow, I had been cut to the core, thrown to the ground and left. I needed to know how many others felt this way. Maya Angelou said “when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time“. I had to ask, was my friend always this way or were they showing me who I have always been?
While checking in with people was hard, it was good. It was confirmed, I had tilted. No one else used the terrible names or was mean. In fact, I came face to face with kindness, even when something hard had to be said. It was one of my “best worst learning experiences.” I was given a doorway.
I dried my tears and tried to stand back up. It’s been a long nine months. I have gone to therapy, immersed myself in more books than one would think possible and have spent any additional waking moments listening to a million different podcasts. I was determined to learn to be better and learn from this loss.
And while I have learned and I think I have become a better version of me, I still don’t feel whole. I still grieve and I still ache. My friend and I still cross paths but it’s not the same. We pretend that “nothing” happened and therein lies the ache. It’s the drifting away…
Except from the song “Waves” by Mr. Probz
I know I am not easy. Just ask my husband. I think we all have quirks that make us endearing until we’re not. Perhaps character is like wine, too much of a good thing ultimately results in a hangover and a vow for moderation moving forward.
I wish I could be easy but I thought that my friend knew that about me. I thought they could accept that part of me. Yes, I challenge the status quo and love the vigour of debating ideas and ideals and push the envelope as we ask ourselves how we can do better as a society. I guess I didn’t recognize that the bottle was empty and they had had enough.
I wish I had the courage to face the rain and ask “can we start again?” or even “can we talk about what happened?. How can I let this just “slip away”? In my sadness, I feel like I am drowning.
I want to have the courage to ask hard questions but I don’t think I am strong enough. I don’t think I can bear any potential rejection. Not again. Not yet. My scars need to form and I need thick skin. In my fear, I choose the easier path. I hide my pain, scrub my questions and keep up the pretense that everything is “fine”. The path of least resistance; a mere illusion to keep the peace.
This is the “big lie”. Pretending that everything is ok when it’s not. A cut that bleeds and when anyone asks we wave it off and say “it’s nothing“. We ignore the signs until we slowly bleed out.
It’s not just friendships, it could be all relationships. What else is there in our life that we “pretend” is fine? Am I the only one that wants to avoid the big conversations for fear of what might happen? Why does it take so much courage to face the pain and ask what weighs heavy in our hearts? How do we cross the bridge of vulnerability and open ourselves up to potential rejection? The questions are hard. Sometimes it is hard to be brave.
Do you still love me? Is this job really what I want? Is my relationship over? Is my marriage over? Are my kids going to be ok?Could I leave? What has to change for it to work? When did it all slip away?Who am I and can I find myself again?How did we become friends when we used to be lovers?
And while those are some of the hard questions, what about the more difficult actions? Admitting error, apologizing despite a feeling of shame and being willing to sit in discomfort for the sake of creating meaningful change. Facing criticism and not flinching, despite the sting.
It is said that while exercising, normal muscle soreness is a sign that you are getting stronger. During exercise, you stress your muscles and the fibers begin to break down. As they fibers repair themselves, they become larger and stronger than they were before.
Ugh. Exercise. Everything hurts.
Winston Churchill said “when you’re going through hell,keep going“. I always associated that with the realities of WW2, not my life. I now see it as a strong and relevant metaphor. I was hurt but I kept going and my fibers are repairing themselves and becoming larger and stronger. I hate it when exercise proves itself to be beneficial.
Nine months ago, my heart was broken by someone I loved deeply as a friend and I blamed myself. I figured I was the problem, the “issue”, the “thing” that needed to be fixed. I tore myself apart in hopes of rebuilding a better me.
These past months have taught me a great deal. I feel “more”. I feel more at ease with who I am. I feel like I “fit”. I ripped down walls that I had built to protect myself and now love an open concept with bigger social spaces and comfy chairs and more honest conversation. The hurt was a gateway to a healing. Until it wasn’t.
The other day, my “friend” wrote me and the words stung. My eyes welled up and my heart started to feel that horrible, terrible ache. Didn’t they know that I had worked hard to be better? Couldn’t they see it?
After pain, comes the rising. I looked down to see if my stitches had split apart and to check for bleeding. Nothing. I was ok. I was better. Even if they couldn’t see it, I could see that I had become better.
I don’t know if this is a comma or a full stop. What I do know is that I am different because of what happened. I looked at what they wrote to me and hit delete. I closed the door and turned to open the window wide and looked out at a different version of the future that I hadn’t contemplated before and it felt awesome. I saw a new world of possibility. I am sorry that this person is no longer part of my life. I miss them everyday but I am also grateful to them. They pushed me and while it felt like falling, it forced me to spread my wings and and learn how to fly.
Growth often comes with pain and maybe even the need to let things go. Life is perpetual change, we are in constant motion and inherently we are called to bloom. We know this but sometimes we aren’t ready so we ignore the little voice that tries to get our attention. We “pretend” that everything is ok and numb ourselves with perceived sensibility and false comfort that being “fine” is the best we can expect. But what if there is more? What if walking through hell is just a way to burn the ropes that hold us back?
I promised to “jump” and sometimes my “jump” is nothing more than a hop but it is motion forward. It’s been a hard year for all of us. I have been afraid to let go. What I realize is that by holding on, I was also holding back. This week I jumped and let go. What’s interesting is how that vision of “letting go” changed. I used to think of “letting go” as holding onto a rope and dangling over the edge of a tall building. I thought by “letting go”, I would fall to my peril. This week, I let go but it was different. This time, I was standing on the roof letting go of the rope that was holding all of my “shoulds”. I watched it all fall away while I stood strong and felt free.
I raise my glass to all those who have walked with me. Thank you for your friendship, thank you for walking as far as you did. While some of us part ways, for those that are still walking with me, thank you for holding my hand.
Here’s to friendship, growth and letting go of what no longer fits or holds us back. Here’s to those that love us and those that push us. I wish you the time and space to live the life that whispers to you. You can do it, even if it first starts with a hop. It’s a call to courage. If I can do it, you can too.
Robert Munch – Canadian Author, “I’ll Love You Forever”
It’s Mother’s Day this week-end. I’ve always felt a bit strange about this day of “celebration”. It assumes that my children want to celebrate me. If the kids need a predetermined day to “celebrate” me, I suck worse than I thought.
I am not a natural when it comes to motherhood. Call me more of a reluctant follower of biological trends required to keep the planet populated. Children seemed chaotic and would need some attention. I can’t keep house plants alive.
Somehow, I became engaged in the theory of evolution and raised three children under adverse conditions; me being the adverse condition. Aiden is 24, Megan is 22 and Owen turns 15. Yes, all the same father. The large gap throws people off. It’s ok if you raised your eyebrows, you aren’t the first which is why I feel compelled to fill in the blank. What’s important is that none of them are in jail. They are all actually lovely people and I am in awe.
Before Aiden was born, I was doubtful that I would bond with a baby. We already had a puppy. What’s cuter than a puppy?
That all changed the second I held him. I get the phrase “a face only a mother could love“. Aiden was red, wrinkled and definitely the worse for the wear and yet, my heart expanded to the point of bursting. Everything felt so small in comparison to that moment.
I have had four moments that changed me. My marriage and the arrival of each of my children. They are what I call “before” and “after” moments where nothing was ever the same, including me.
From the moment they were born, I was committed to seeing them succeed. I became perfunctory as a mother only because I didn’t know what else to do. There was no way I was going to rely on instinct. I might seriously muck them up. I needed to “master” motherhood. I needed a plan. And plenty of books. I also needed a checklist and a measure of success.
Aiden was a typical young boy and I often wanted to sell him to the zoo. How he and his friend ever thought it was a good idea to fill up the car with water is beyond me. Things were always exploding or being dug up. While Aiden was playing the mad scientist, Megan found her own drum to dance to. She had her own ideas of how to rule the world. For many years, it was tough to get her dressed which made it awkward going to the grocery store. She was also the first one to run away. She packed her bags including her backpack for school. She was going to live in the ditch just down the road from our house. A neighbor came by and reminded her she had school the next day. “I know. I have my agenda and I packed a juice box“. She was six.
My perception of being “perfect” was going to be defined by ensuring that the kids became more than me. I have always carried a shadow that my lack of education somehow defined me and with that, I created my own limitations. I wanted more for the kids. My kids (our kids) would be armed with tools to become anything that they wanted; just as long as they became what I wanted in their formative years. I had their lives mapped out and if we all stuck to the plan, they could become whatever they wanted……as soon as they hit university. Until then, we would check off milestones in order of progression.
My goal was to see them grow to be whole humans who could competently maneuver through life; to become contributing members of society who lived life with joy. The flaw of all this is that I didn’t stop to ask them what they wanted. I wonder if they grew weary with the weight of my expectations? Did they hear ” be your best” or did it sound more like “be the best“?
I was so focused on getting them to the finish line that I forgot things along the way. Like, how did they feel in my presence? Did they feel loved and cherished or did they feel that they could never measure up? When they walked into a room did my eyes light up and make them feel seen and heard or did I refer to my check list and see what was next? Why was I so relentless when it would have been just as easy to stop time and lay in the grass while looking up at the clouds?
I think I loved my kids so hard and so tight that I broke them. I loved them to pieces and not always in a good way. All those times I thought I was lovingly “molding” them when in fact, I wonder if they looked at me wishing the criticism would end. I cringe at how they just stood there; stoic and unflinching. If I never understood their outbursts, I do now. In my efforts to create a masterpiece, the knife I wielded as the loving sculptor made cuts and left marks often unseen to the naked eye in the finished form. It’s only later, that the wounds spill open.
Unwittingly, I likely caused pain and probably some shame to. While I write about my relationship with my children, I wonder how many others out there are grappling with the hurts of their own childhood? Life has a way of picking at the scab, drawing blood and never allowing the wound to completely heal.
Some generations don’t have the skills to build bridges to heal the hurts. Perceptions create misunderstandings, silence holds anger and / or resentment while misinterpretation of intent creates distance. Families are complicated dynamics. We don’t always have a shared context for the same moments and in our own versions, we form what we see as “the truth“.
There were many tense times when my kids were young. My husband was away at school, I was juggling two kids, a full time job and never fail, something in the house always fell apart. One winter, our well went dry and in -40, I was down at the river hauling water back to the house to boil for baths and household use. Student loans were barely covering costs and my job was only just keeping us afloat. The kids were kids and had more energy than I could often rally to. Did I snap more than once? Likely a hundred plus times. Do they remember this? Likely. Did I sit them down and explain all the stress that I was feeling? No. Do we burden our children with the nitty gritty of our lives or just the consequences of them? In my case, I didn’t say what was happening or what I was feeling. My silence likely led to an unintended consequence. In hindsight, there is a good chance that they believed my bursts of anger and frustration were because of them. If only I could rewind the film and start again.
Maybe that’s what makes the relationship between parents and children so fraught with tension. Things left unsaid, moments misunderstood. How do you retrace all the steps to forge a new path?
This has been a year of loss. Many people holding the hand of a loved one for a last time. Standing at the bedside of a parent, reconciling emotions; saying all the things that need to be said before a final passing. This is bravery. Letting go is a final act of courage, a finality that shifts our core. In a fleeting moment, the world stands still and nothing will ever be the same and the heart begins to ache. To ease the pain, an empty heart turns to grief and looks to memories that will fill the void, all while whispering, “please come back“.
It is this time of grieving that we need our people. Weddings, births and funerals are the pillars that connect us and we come together as family and community to share in these moments. COVID has stolen these traditions and we are left mourning in isolation. Grief needs hands to hold and arms that embrace the hurt. Part of the grieving is the collective story telling; laughing at things that once made us cry; crying at the things that made us laugh. It’s the moments that matter and I overlooked this as I marched through my children’s childhood with my clipboard at my side.
My brother-in-law has just walked the path of loss. This morning I read his father’s obituary. “Our best loved dad, grandpa, husband, brother, friend and business partner…….” “He had a generous, kind nature and was greatly loved by everyone, especially the grandkids who each thought they were his favourite…”
How beautiful. How marvelous. To be so loved by so many and to have left an indelible print that changed people for the better. I fear I have been misguided. My definition of success, is now reshaped.
I loved my children fiercely which likely ignited many battles. Tempers would flare, heated words were exchanged and I was grateful we didn’t have neighbors. I realize now that my anger was just a disguise for my fear. I was afraid that I was not enough that that I was possibly failing them if I didn’t keep them focused. I was strict and I regret not giving more space to softness.
Before anyone calls for intervention, I should clarify that Aiden and Megan have now both finished university. Throughout high school, they both were strong academic students, high achieving athletes, were part of student council, keen volunteers and won several scholarships and bursaries for their post secondary ambitions. Aiden is an electrical engineer and Megan has just completed her degree in Public Health Social Policy with a major in Health and Community Services (that’s a mouthful!). By all accounts, they are terrific people and doing marvelous things. The pathway I paved has given them skills that allow them to aspire to their own ambitions. They have crossed the finish line despite me and because of me but I know that there was a cost.
But was it worth it? In the process of helping them “become adults”, I missed so many moments. Yes, I cheered but I didn’t stop to pause, to breathe and to just sit with them and hold their hand in silence. Why? Why didn’t I? I was afraid that they would turn out like me and I wanted more for them. So silly; maybe even a little tragic. Did I ever give them enough place and space to feel completely accepted in my presence or was there always an edge? The sculptor, the knife and the nicks.
I’m guessing for as many times I asked “how did it go?”, I could have asked, “how are you?”. I could have listened more but no, I likely let them tell me the problem and before they could say anything more, I leaped in with the answer and some perceived sense of good advice which was likely awful. Oh my God! Could I have not held back for just one more stretch of silence and let them finish and feel heard?
On Mother’s Day, it is me that feels compelled to celebrate my kids. They have been so gracious over the years. Rarely did they buckle under the nick of the knife. I don’t know how they can be so gracious perhaps it’s because our shared journey was learning what it was to become human. Their early years were harder than the later years. Likely, they saw through my effort to be “perfect” and learned to see that love can sometimes be flawed in implementation despite best efforts and honest intent.
I share this now because Aiden just took a job that takes him nine hours away. He’s been close to us during COVID and watching him pack for this new job tore me apart. Weddings and births are beginnings; so are adult jobs and starting a life of one’s own. Aiden now walks his own path. He is where I wanted him to be; I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to watch this next chapter unfold. I want to pack my bags and join him. Share the chapter and yet, it is not mine to share. These moments are his.
He has become a man and my job is done. We’re at that infamous finish line I imagined all those years ago. It doesn’t feel like sweet success, it feels like loss. Letting go takes place in so many stages of life. I miss him. I miss all of him. I wish I had more moments where we lay in the grass and looked up at the clouds. Like Robert Munch wrote, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be”
Last day before Aiden leaves to new adventures (Aiden…far right)
So one has flown the nest. Megan is still at home. She is joy. She came home to finish her degree online. COVID closed the school. While she’s been home, she has opened her heart to me. I have been able to provide more soft spots. We talk deeply and we have developed a new communication style. We call it the “loop back“. Anytime either of us says something that causes our emotions to spark, we loop back. I might say, “I just want to loop back to something you said and make sure I understood what you meant……” This has become a powerful tool that ensures we have more moments of acceptance. We have a stronger relationship and we are slaying the ghosts of the past. It’s been incredibly healing and genuine. If anything, we are taking time to look up at the clouds.
As much as I have hated COVID, I do need to say thanks. I am less busy which means that my family has found me more present and more available. Our conversations are rich, our relationships are honest. I feel like I see and hear them. I lost the clipboard, I stopped making lists and I have nothing to check off except to make sure that I make time for them, that they feel that they matter.
While much of this has been about Aiden and Megan, I want to acknowledge Owen. He has the advantage of a decade “in-between”. He is actually a blog topic of his own (stay tuned!). While he lives under the same expectations of “be your best“, he has had more freedom to evolve which has been a beautiful thing to watch. There’s no pressure. Maybe that’s a byproduct of my maturity or possibly because I am a decade older and a little fatigued. I learned that our environment shapes us, but I need to nurture, not mold. With Owen, I learned my lesson and I make more time to lay in the grass.
To you my beautiful children, thank you for your grace. Thank you for loving me despite…. I’m sorry for the times I wasn’t there. I was busy being busy for reasons that I thought mattered. I’m different now and I want to live the rest of my life living out loud with those that I love and adore. I’d rather lay in the grass and look up at the clouds.
Love is messy and complicated and yet, we lean in with those that we love. It makes me think of a story I heard about otters. They swim together and at night, to prevent themselves from floating away in the swirling sea while they sleep, sea otters often entangle themselves in forests of kelp or giant seaweed to provide anchorage. This is also the reason that they hold hands. They do so to prevent anyone from drifting away.
Here’s to being human and being a little bit better than we were yesterday. Here’s to holding hands and holding on.
If you haven’t binged on the series Schitt’s Creek, might I suggest you start now. Like right now. Don’t let the title put you off; just dive in. It’s incredibly human on many levels. Catherine O’Hara (Moira) describes the show “It’s like we’re aliens learning how to be humans.” Yes Moira; aliens learning how to be human. I get that. I live that T-shirt everyday.
It’s not only human, it’s razor sharp wit and brilliant social commentary. I have a love affair for every character. It eloquently epitomizes the messiness of life and being loved despite “of“. Oh yes, an absolute feel good comedy that resonates as “real“.
The show itself is a success story that serves to inspire. The creators had this concept that they hustled in hopes of funding. Dismissed time and again but they persevere and find their voice on the Canadian Broadcasting Channel (CBC) and are given free reign on comedic commentary. Flash forward six seasons and the show is now being internationally acclaimed. It’s not just the show itself but the stories of the people.
Annie Murphy plays the Alexis Rose. Even if you haven’t watched the show, you might have caught wind of the viral song / performance “A Little Bit Alexis“. Night clubs light up and people break out in song and dance. Just Google it. But I digress….this is the story I want to tell. Annie is a Canadian actress. She hadn’t worked for two years. She had $300 in the bank and two days before she was asked to audition, her house burned down. Going to the edge and not falling off.
Jennifer Robertson is another Canadian actress who found a home with Schitt’s Creek. The day before she landed the role of Jocelyn Schitt, she had applied at Petco as a forklift driver. She was perilously close to her financial edge. She didn’t fall off either.
These are just two characters, I kind of think the whole cast has their own story. Coming up the middle and breaking through the surface. Real people keeping the hope alive and owning authenticity that resonates with soul and purpose.
It makes me think, if you hold your breath long enough, we all might come up for air and burst into a world where dreams come true.
Schitt’s Creek has become a pandemic comfort. I feel absolutely no guilt about the binge. In fact, I think I’m going to start the series again with new contemplation.
I need some contemplation. A few weeks ago, I hit a speed bump that threw me for a curve and flung me into a pity party that started at 3am and wouldn’t stop until I did “something“. What does one do at a pity party when the music sucks? I took to scrolling and somewhere between 4 am and 5am, I found myself subscribing to NOOM. I know…..just when you think it doesn’t get darker, someone always trips, falls and bumps their head on the coffee table.
In my case, I fell into this weird world of NOOM (Moon spelled backwards) that is supposed to be purposeful in helping me make small shifts to achieve my health goals. To simplify the definition of what I have just done would be to say, I signed up for a different version of Weight Watchers. Does anyone have a flashlight? It’s very dark in here.
I’ve been looking for a new framework for my life. Truth be told, I have a total rebuild that is required. My expertise in recreating my life is zero so I figured I needed outside assistance. The jury is still out on whether decisions made in the middle of the night are worthy or just crazy. All I know is that where I wanted to be is nowhere near where I am and that’s after a year of “trying“. If something isn’t working, it seems reasonable to rethink the process.
So here I am. A new NOOM member. The first week was a bit rough. I found myself lying to the NOOM Bot. This would be the Artificial Intelligence (AI) part of the program. Who lies to an algorithm? I do. It’s Easter and I found myself asking “are Hersey Eggies sugar or an actual egg“? I needed the points for the category so in my mind, they are now a protein. I am embarrassed. Lying to NOOM. Can it get much lower? It appears it can because I also restart the quizzes to ensure a perfect scrore. WHO DOES THIS? I need to be super clear on this point. I cheated in a program that I am PAYING for that is only assessed by an algorithm. I suck.
At this point, I should back the bus up. You may or may not be interested in how I fell down this rabbit hole. I took a “test”. The NOOM “ad” asked me if I would like to fit into a pair of skinny jeans and I said “yes”. They then directed me to a quiz that asked me how much weight I would like to lose. I answered the questions and they advised me that I could do this by May 15th. May 15th? After a year of “trying”, I could achieve my goal by May 15th? That is less than two months! Entering my credit card…….
This is why one should not make decisions in the dark. I completed a survey, got the results that I “wanted” and hit “pay now“. I am an idiot. This isn’t new shoes from Amazon. NOOM is not going to “deliver” my new weight. I actually have to “do” the work. May 15th is dependent on my following the program and not LYING about how many Hersey Eggies I am sneaking in for breakfast.
Week two. Even if I lie, the scale doesn’t. OMG, it was so much easier when I could say “I’ve tried everything!” and throw up my hands in despair. I could win an Academy Award for victim.
Real change comes from admitting what isn’t working. According to the colour coding system of NOOM, I find great joy in the “red” reporting. This is where I have to be accountable for how many Hersey Eggies I am actually enjoying with the real number of glasses of red wine which are accompanied by toasted sour dough bread that tastes divine with avacado. I was under the impression that I was very “healthy“. Avacado has healthy fats and wine is essentially grapes in a glass. Entering my stats showed a different reality.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall….who’s the biggest liar of them all…?“
Dammit.
Looking in the mirror takes some courage. Things weren’t working and it’s because I kept a blind eye. I have to be accountable. I feel somewhat pathetic that what keeps me accountable is an “app”.
For change to take place, I have to be honest and accept that choices have consequences. I hide the Hersey Eggies in the trunk of the car. Sometimes I hear them late at night. They are mournful as they call my name. Sometimes I ignore them, most times I have to check and see if they are ok. I will only know if they are ok if I taste them. And then I have to record them in the app. Choices have consequences.
Over the past year, I have made choices that haven’t supported my end game. Being a victim is super easy, I don’t even have to dress up. I just show up. If I want to stop NOOM from charging my credit card for the rest of my life, I have to change my ways and lean into the process. Leaning in means looking over the edge. I have a fear of heights. No wonder I take shelter with sugar.
Since my “reckoning“, I feel more accountable and I’m learning what needs to be tweaked. I now have an “actual” coach with NOOM. I don’t know if “Bobbi” is male or female but I guess it doesn’t matter. I actually participate with my “group” and tell them what’s challenging for me. These people are complete strangers and yet, I am going to tell them who I am and what I struggle with. I am hoping my “group” becomes a new sense of “community” where I can practice admitting being flawed as a human. So far, so good. They understand the struggle of feeling compelled to answer the call of an Eggie…..
I wish I could say that my look in the mirror was only about skinny jeans. Choices are often related to feelings. I heard a line the other day. “Ghosts in the walls that hold you back”.
That rings true. If I have had the illusion of being completely “healthy”, I wonder what other illusions there are. Am I really the best wife I could be? How about mother? Does my impression of myself match a reality or am I am lying to myself there too? It’s not just the scale I need to look at, I think I need to look closer into the eyes of those I love and find out if I am really present. Do I give them joy or do I just go through the motions. I can’t be one dimensional in my curiosity. Skinny jeans are not the goal, living a full and happy life is.
The actors from Schitt’s Creek all had ambitions that they almost gave up on and yet found one last breath to break through the surface and soar upwards. If you are breaking free and bursting with an inner brilliance, the ghosts in the walls don’t have any hold.
If you have been following this blog, you know that there is a bit of a theme…… I built a travel business, it was actually successful and then COVID arrived and blew everything up. I’ve been trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces and find a new start. In finding my new start, I am completely intrigued with how others are managing and what I can learn.
On a local level, there is a cute little restaurant that is owned by a most incredible human. He is smart, intuitive, creative, hard working and was held hostage by his own ghosts. This past year, he broke free and by doing so, all of his best qualities have become “more”. This new depth resulted in a complete transformation of the restaurant that now speaks to who “he is”. He can sign his signature with pride. I sit on the sidelines and am humbled and inspired by his growth and honesty.
The week of the new grand opening, I had to go by. OK. Since I am being honest, I have done a million “drive by’s” to see the steps of transformation. Of course I had to see the final outcome and wasn’t disappointed. It was beautiful.
While the owner is a gorgeous soul, so is his partner and I am completely enthralled and totally captivated. He is wise, kind and spiritual. I’m not sure how he does it but when he talks to me, there is no choice but to answer from the bottom of the heart. That night, we spent three hours talking. He held my hand and with every topic, the conversation went deeper. We talked about the journey of change, of being honest and living a true life. I told him things that I had never admitted to anyone, not even myself. Mirror, mirror on the wall…..
In the presence of someone who is soulful and sincere, there is no hiding or ducking. You have to tell the truth. We talked about the journey and he said, “Shelley, coming out is not about being gay. It’s about coming out as yourself”.
Everything stood still and in that moment, I walked away from the wall and the ghosts lost their hold.
If I am going to be my self, I need to BE MY SELF. For years, I have been wearing a t-shirt with “should” on the front. As a wife, mother, daughter and professional, I have felt that I “should” behave a certain way. What “way” remains a tad bit fuzzy but somehow I have translated that to mean that now I am of a certain vintage, my skirts should now be knee length and table dancing with a shot of tequila while singing Sweet Home Alabama might not be considered “suitable” or “appropriate“. No wonder I feel as though I can’t breath. I have been following some odd code of conduct in hopes of being considered “respectable“. Living as a “should” has likely kept me separate; likely kept me from being truly present in not only my life but the life of others.
Who the heck am I trying to impress and why do I want to be their friend if they frown at a fun night of table dancing? Furthermore, if they aren’t a fan of “Sweet Home Alabama“, what on earth could we have in common?
What does it mean to fully show up as myself? The “should” label has been a form of safe armor. As he held my hand, I had a moment of realization. I want to be a part of a community that is fulling accepting. I want to live in Schitt’s Creek. I want to live in my own skin and live my truth.
“Coming out” is burning the “should” shirt and wearing the I AM version. I am flawed, I am scared and I wear scarves in hopes that no one will notice that even in my 50’s, I have no idea what it is to successfully “adult”. I don’t want to be judged for my shortcomings and in return, I have no judgement for anyone else. It’s exhausting. I want to be happy and I want you to be happy. I want to keep digging through the layers that have buried my creativity and find MY SELF so I can live MY SELF. Just writing it feels very freeing.
I see why people hold onto their deepest dreams and don’t give up. They are the courageous people that inspire me. I also see that giving up isn’t about giving up the dream, it’s when we give up on ourselves. I did that. I can raise my hand. I did that. I gave up and pretended that I wasn’t. Just ask NOOM. You don’t have to lie if you are telling the truth.
To be human is to be kind. It’s hard. Being human is hard. The judgements and expectations rob us of the fun. It’s hard work pretending and conforming. No wonder my clothes didn’t fit. I am excited to unbuckle. As David Rose says, “I like the wine, not the label”. Good one David. I’m a bit tired of pretending and wearing labels that don’t honestly reflect the true contents.
And as for Schitt’s Creek, I know it’s a place of pretend but what if it’s not? What if this is the example that we could all achieve. I like that vision. I like what it might feel like to feel accepted and I’m talking about me.
What a journey and how exciting the destinations that are yet to come. I can’t wait to start living a technicolor life! There will still be curves and bumps but when it gets dark, I won’t scroll. I will think of Schitt’s Creek and Johnny Rose “We’re all going to be ok“. Yes we are Johnny, yes we are.
To you my friends, thank you for being kind. Thank you for a place and space where it’s ok to cling to small lies and then grow to be more no matter the age or stage.
And Then I Jumped...... 