Paintings by Justine, Danielle's momma
“I tell them that we can choose to be perfect and admired or to be real and loved. We must decide. If we choose to be perfect and admired, we must send our representatives out to live our lives. If we choose to be real and loved, we must send out our true, tender selves. That’s the only way, because to be loved we have to be known. If we choose to introduce our true selves to anyone, we will get hurt. But we will be hurt either way. There is pain in hiding and pain outside of hiding. The pain outside is better because nothing hurts as bad as not being known. The irony is that our true selves are tougher than our representatives are. My tender self was never weak at all. She was made to survive the pain of love. My tenderness is my strength. Turns out that I never needed to hide. I was a Warrior all along.”
― Glennon Doyle Love Warrior
I cannot heal, grow nor learn in isolation. Almost everything I choose to write about is birthed within my conversations with women who are living into life without their child(ren) earth side. Not too long ago I asked one of my bereaved mommas if she could share with me what surprised her the most about returning to work after the loss of her child. Her reply was the amount of energy that it took to hold it all together so that she could do her job, yet only to discover that each evening she was totally worn to the bone.
My experience with this is not direct, as I was not currently employed when Douglas shed his earth suit. Yet, my husband was and he took two weeks off and was back to work. He at least had an office with a door where he could retreat and take a few moments to pause in-between meetings and having to feel “on.” He walked into the house every evening, put on his comfy clothes and stretched out on the couch often taking a nap before dinner. Finally, safe at home to just BE and to gather all the parts of himself that might have been scattered about at work trying their mightiest to work as one cohesive unit.
Others I have spoken to felt that work was a huge relief as they could compartmentalize, place their grief in a box for the day and show up to work to have something else to submerge themselves into.
What comes in for me is that it takes time to trust the integration of our losses into ourselves and allow them to merge like an abstract painting. Colors swirling, touching, blending into one another and perhaps creating something new, never imagined until fully experienced.
It doesn’t feel as if it’s something that can be worked on as if there is a secret formula to be discovered. I sense it becomes allowing the embodiment of the loss to wiggle its way into our bodies and to show us the way. Discerning what it is that’s behind the need to feel pulled together, the yearning for some kind of control over that which often resembles a wild horse, not able to be tethered or even touched until it can be. Fourteen years later I still cannot be certain of when a tear may fall, a lump the size of a boulder may form in my throat, yet what I do know now is that I never apologize for having a human moment.
This is something that it as unique as we are and maybe we’ll never feel safe enough to not have our representative out doing our bidding. Yet, maybe she will be asked to wait in the wings and to remain close by just in case. Both are okay, are needed and trusting that our bodies will show us which one is sustainable over time, may be where our answers are tucked away.
Each of us finds our way through this whether we are showing up in the workplace or not. I encountered this in early loss just when I had to open my door to someone knocking on it or walk out to the mailbox. Only our way, and not comparing our insides to anyone’s outsides. One can never know how this lands for each individual, yet continuing to show up, using our tools, feeling into our bodies and asking what they are in need of, this becomes our new mode of navigating.
No matter who shows up these days, my representative because she is who I am calling upon or me, I am learning to trust that she’s got it and not question or second guess who appears. I’m seeing less of my representative, yet when I need her, how grateful I am that she’s suited up and read to roll. When it’s fully me, I can still feel like a turtle without her shell, tender and vulnerable. Always hoping that I was okay in how I showed up, yet even with that, I’m really not caring as much as once did, because I’m trusting this internal healing process. No wonder I can feel weary some days, all of this to sift and sort through before I even open the door. This is why we refer to ourselves as warrior mommas, because WE ARE!
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