Just so you know…

I’m not going to “find myself.”

Nor am I going to “lose myself.” This isn’t escapism. I’m not running from my problems.

I know who I am. And am hoping to discover more along the way.

And as I told my brother-in-law recently, it’s hard to be a human. And I sometimes think it’s even more difficult when you know who you are. When you don’t ride the wave of pop culture. Don’t conform. When you are constantly comparing your path to the prescribed path: go to school, get a job, get married, have kids…etc. I think I missed a few steps. Missed some pieces along the way. I desperately wish I could find them. But really I guess we’re all on our own journey anyway.

I despise social media. Even beginning to write this makes me cringey. So does posting that picture right there. But it’s my sister’s favorite. Sure I follow my favorite designers on instagram and enjoy funny videos. But you will never find me taking selfies for facebook or snapchat, or whatever people do these days. My mom told me I was born 40 years old, “born older,” like George Bailey. Maybe that’s why I want something that feels less superficial. A way to share my experiences in some meaningful and accessible way. So, a blog. Millennial in the house!

I think I’m writing this for you. But I’m also doing it for myself. Maybe we can both learn something. And I can get some of these ramblings out of my head. Document the adventure. The process.

Heads up, it’ll be very stream of consciousness. I can’t help it, it’s how my brain works, especially these days.

So here’s some backstory. Not an explanation, or excuse, or justification. Just a story. The quick version.

As my friend James Dukes says, “Maybe your story isn’t yours anymore. Maybe it’s for someone else.”

I remember the exact moment when my heart completely shattered. It had cracked several times the past few years, pieces had chipped and fallen away. But I felt it break.

2020, I was sitting at my parents’ house. We had lost my dad a couple months before. So hard. Cancer was quickly taking my mom. A text flashed across my phone. And in that instant I knew this was it. Every hope, every bit of goodness, every single little thing I was holding onto dissolved. It suddenly sank into my brain that this was all going to be nearly impossible.

Emily: “Are you ok?…you look like you’re going to throw up.”

Me: “Yep. I don’t feel good. May have been that old pizza we ate. I’m gonna go outside for a bit.”

Take a lap. Pull it together, dammit.

Through everything we had been through, all our life, I always pulled it together. Threw it on my shoulders, and kept going. Somehow I thought if I did that, it was going to be ok. Somehow my ability to handle it meant it was alright. Everyone else can fall apart, but don’t worry, I’ll carry it.

Be good. Do good. And life will be good. So I did. I worked so hard. Pushed myself through everything. Responsible to a fault. Even when it was falling apart, I was good. I was so strong, I could hold all of us together. Such pride. How naive. How stupid.

I thought I was holding everything together. I thought I had been since I was thirteen. My staying in Memphis, my absolute determination to be perfect, my willingness to be here through anything. Constant vigilance. I was the glue, and without me, it crumbles. But as it turns out, I wasn’t. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t hold this up anymore.

I remember I told my mom one time– “I work so hard to stay a straight course, to be good, to keep out the drama, the heartache, the bad things.”

And she said, “You can’t. That’s life.”

Damn.

I was shaking. Legs wobbly. There was nothing to grasp onto. My chest was burning. Burning. The top of my head felt detached from my body. I was floating away. Certainly not holding anything together. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing. Shattered.

I was afraid of all the pain. Feeling the pain from everything. All those moments. All these moments happening in real time. My heart was broken. It was all spilling out.

And so I gathered the pieces and did my best.

We took care of my mom. Some of the most agonizing moments of my life in slow motion. I found myself looking for small moments of beauty where I could find them, anywhere I could find them. A winning game of solitaire. A kind text from a friend. A warm meal. A hug.

The love from all of my people. The best thing that has come from this is realizing the true love and kindness of the people in my life. I get to spend my life with some of the best people on the planet. Sincerely. That’s you guys! You showed up for me in ways I could have never imagined. You held me up when I was falling down. That love rivals any sadness I have ever felt.

During those hard times I often found myself dreaming of being somewhere else.

When I was a child I always thought at some point, when you become an adult, you suddenly stop loving all the things you once loved. Surely, at some point, Mom and Dad loved art, and music, and being with friends, and watching the sun through the trees, and laying in the grass, and making things, and going places, and reading, and….then suddenly they must have stopped. I have been waiting for that moment.

It never came. Not even in the darkest times. Instead I found myself yearning for those things. To be in the city. To be in the wilderness. To be in the sunshine. To run in the rain. To be among friends. To stand in front of a masterpiece. To build, and make, and create. To read. To dream. To love.

A couple months later we are standing by my mom’s bed. Emily is checking her oxygen levels, blood pressure, heart rate. It will probably be today. She is very matter of fact about these things. She’s been through the worst of it–her first year as a nurse in the middle of a global pandemic. I’m so thankful for her, that she’s my sister, that we share this life. That we share those childhood moments, the good and bad. I love her so freaking much. Since the day she was born. The coolest kid I know. I know I would never want to walk these steps with anyone else.

I lay my head on my moms chest. Weep silently. A pain I’ve never known before. Where does this love go? And how can I hold it all?

Damn.

We spend 2021 trudging through. Pain, grief, lawyers (thankfully ours is a wonderful person), banks, realtors, banks, did I mention we had to actually go to a bank? Several times. The worst. Yard sale, sell the house, sell this and that. And keep all of this. And fill the attic and the shelves and buy new shelves and hold on to it all so tightly because that’s all that’s left. What is Christmas any more than the ornaments we split between us?

Me: “It doesn’t feel like Christmas”

Emily: “Yeah, because Mom and Dad aren’t here”

Why don’t you just punch me in the throat next time? It would be easier to catch my breath.

And when I feel like my heart is on the mend, and I can finally get to my feet, I lose one of my best friends. A mentor. A teacher. A mother.

I hold her hand, so many tears I can’t see, unable to breathe, my lungs won’t fill with air. Quietly thanking her for everything. Everything.

Cancer is a dirty, rotten thief.

Again, shattered. Absolutely obliterated. Blindsided. Standing in the middle of the tracks and hit by a speeding train. She changed my life. She was a guidepost. And somehow she was suddenly gone.

Three of the most important people in my life. One year.

Grief is hard to describe. Waves. They knock you off your feet and send you into a roiling sea of pain, sadness, guilt, regret. A void as deep and wide as you can imagine. A vacuum. The heaviest weight. An infinite sense of loss. Missing. Complete, gut wrenching heartache. A dull physical aching in your entire body, your entire being. Overwhelming love, and the agony of never being able to express it again. Just stay afloat, try to catch your breath.

Blinding sorrow sitting next to the most beautifully spiritual. Witnessing my people, parts of my spirit and soul, leave this world. Quietly. And quietly feeling the others fill in, holding up the edges, allowing me to stare down the abyss without falling in. Viewing the mortality of those I love most. Viewing my own. Our collective humanness. And gently holding me up.

My brain has stopped working like it used to. Stress, anxiety, grief do horrible things to your body. It’s been coming for a few years, but has gotten so much worse. Somehow I can’t find words. I can’t remember anything. Can’t focus. Sleep is strange and sporadic at times. But I’m so damn exhausted. I dream about them and wake with a sadness in my throat. Sometimes the entire thing feels like a dream. My writing is disjointed and short and lacks the substance it once had (if it even once had it). I go to a thought here, but it feels painful, so I avoid it. And stay this course for a while. Recover. Mend. Put it back together.

Reset.

“Make beauty from the pain.”

And so I’m going to do that. And to be my full self in the world. To do all the things I love–eat good food, see works from some of the greatest creatives the world has known, see the stars. Out of my comfort zone. To experience all the beautiful things I can find.

“We’re made of star stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” “…universal and divine ingredients…”

I miss my people. Every single day. In ways I can’t describe. I want to take them with me, want to tell them all about it. Maybe that’s the magic of the Universe, that they’re always with me now.

I have never left Memphis for any extended period of time, never lived anywhere else. I just couldn’t do it. Maybe I was afraid they wouldn’t be ok. And that I would be the reason. Maybe I still am. But I feel like I have to. I want to. Just for a little bit. To know I can do it, to know it will be ok. Please let me go. I’ll be back.

The fact that this entire adventure is a privilege is not lost on me. I actually struggle with that quite a bit. Yes, I have been through literal hell to get to this point, but this thing somehow feels selfish. Some days I’m overwhelmingly excited, others I feel panicked. What the hell am I doing?

My only hope and desire for this grand journey is that I can bring the beautiful things back with me. To fill up every ounce of my creative being and come back full-force for all of the good things to come. Good things are coming. I’m bringing them!

I was talking to a friend recently, and I was telling her everything everyone was hoping for me during this trip. And I told her that I don’t want them. I don’t want to expect any of those things. I don’t want the pressure, and subsequent disappointment. I just want to be. No expectations. To trust the process.

And she said, “You always show up… And I think the world will show up for you.”

Damn.

Here’s to showing up!