 When a caterpillar is ready to fly, it binds itself into a chrysalis and the body dissolves. This glob of undifferentiated cells is no longer a caterpillar, and not yet a butterfly. It is in between identities, released from its past and awaiting its future. 2016 has been that kind of year for me. While I have, several times this year, believed to have held a vision of my future, each considered path has landed me back to square one. In January, I decided to postpone acupuncture school indefinitely, ready to make my way back to the corporate world to earn my first real paycheck since 2010. But when the reality of separating from my daughter felt more like abandonment than parental duty, I became a stay-at-home-mom, committed to creating a life that would provide for us financially without separating us physically. In May, I began The Vulnerability Movement, a website where my blog and book and newfound wisdom would find its way into the world, aiming to transform the hearts and minds of those living in fear of vulnerability and authenticity and the dark scary parts we try to protect the world from. Six months later that blog is still just a blog, not a movement; and my book, after several months of focused writing, has been put to rest. It is a valid piece of work, but it no longer resonates with me. My voice has changed. Such is the tricky thing about being in-between identities. What you work your ass off to accomplish one day, can seem inconsequential the next.
So for the past month, I’ve been floundering a bit. On the inside, at least. On the outside I look strong -- I’m raising an amazing child, making new friends, buying a condo, taking classes, and trying to navigate towards true north -- determined to make my new life work. I express gratitude for what I have. I maintain confidence in my ability as a parent. I tell myself that everything is as it should be. That I am moving forward without George, and this is my life, and I need to love and appreciate and accept my circumstances for all of their shortcomings. Except I don’t. Because here is the truth: I feel very alone. Not alone in the sense that there is no one to talk to, or confide in. Alone in the sense that there is nobody by my side, walking with me, in step, invested. There is nobody to make big decisions with, or to take trips with, or to get Nova dressed, fed, bathed, napped, read to and played with. Every day, she is my duty, from the moment she opens her eyes until they close again at night, and while there are some beautiful rewards to single parenting, I am struggling. What hit me this week, like a flash of lightning to the heart, is that despite all of the positive psychology I try to pump into my brain, this is not what I wanted. But social norms and my quest to become the super queen warrior of widowhood have forced me to exit that mentality. It doesn’t matter if this isn’t what I wanted. This is what I got, and I must make the best of it. I must raise this child myself. I must learn to do and be it all. So I pretend, every day, that things are exactly as they should be. I pretend to accept, and to be grateful, and to be unafraid of my future. The vulnerability and authenticity that I so boldly championed have slipped through the cracks. The cracks I pretend not to see. It happens again. I dissolve. I am formless once more, undifferentiated. I don’t know the way forward, but I know I can’t fake my way there. And I hear myself in judgment, about where I think I should be at this point, 2 years in, and what people will think when they see me struggling, and how I shouldn’t allow myself to keep grieving for a past that will never make its way back to me. But putting on a coat of armor to walk into the world each day is not going to work, and the hard reality is that grief is never over. We don’t simply achieve acceptance one day, and never look back. Grief is a constant moving forward, and a constant looking back. A forever journey to find your way home. Onward, again. |
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