I take a breath and blink my eyes open and closed a few times to reset. When I open them up again, the sunlight is blinding. I take a few steps further into the cemetery and into the shadows. I stumble and almost trip over a headstone that I didn’t see beneath my feet, I stop and look, pausing to honor the person whose grave I almost danced over.

The tombstone reads: Here lies the love of your life.

A gust of wind surrounds me and I take a step back, looking around to see that suddenly, I’m surrounded by tombstones. Each one illuminated by their own spotlights, as if I were in a museum of dead things.

I try not to read them, afraid of what I’ll find. But my eyes drift without my permission. The next one reads: In loving memory of the life you thought you’d live.

The crow from earlier caws again and sounds closer this time. A warning.

I try to find a path to get away from the overwhelming swell of stones and find no way out. The crow lands on one behind me that reads, Rest in Peace to the peace of thinking you had control.

I sit down, accepting that I cannot escape these fates.

These deaths.

These knowings.

And suddenly, I’m back in the sun.

The tombstones have disappeared.

And instead, there’s just you.

I worked with kids navigating trauma, adults processing grief, queer folks figuring out how to understand their identities, young adults holding space for the major life transitions, and more.

In my early twenties I was dealing with much of the same things I was helping my clients navigate. I was trying to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be. I was navigating grief and learning who I was after loss. I was finding my place and anxious as hell.

I moved out of the role of therapist once I became a mom and transitioned into teacher. And still, I hold space for others. I have grown into a new version of myself again, after a major loss and a big life transition. I help young adults figure out their next steps in their careers and explore new parts of themselves in a classroom while I am doing the same outside of it. I teach people of all ages how to connect with their grief and mortality while I connect with my own.

I teach a lot and I love it. But I also am trying to find a place in my career for my writer identity. I go through phases of real inspiration and dedication to writing. To the craft of creating characters and storylines, usually based on my own life and experiences. To the art of taking something I’m going through and creating a narrative that might be relatable to a reader. But all in all, to help me process what my stuff is and to help me connect with other people who might get it.

Because of this, this need for writing as a processing tool and a desire for connection through it, I teach writing classes and run writing groups. I haven’t felt inspired to write in a few months, there is just so much happening in real time that my brain hasn’t been able to feel creative with any of it yet. Hasn’t had room to process because it’s all still very much happening and unfinished. So much of my writing still feels the same. Unfinished.

But I keep showing up and holding space for my writing community and host my writing groups.

I’m hoping to get back into a creative space soon and I have started to play with a new novel idea that’s not based on my life at all. It’ll be fun to play with characters and see who they want to become. To explore a storyline that’s not based on real life experience but rather my imagination and escapist needs.

I’ve only just started it but am going to share a little excerpt from an opening scene that I’m particular tickled by. I hope you enjoy and I would love thoughts on if you want to read more.

With love and hopefully some refreshed sense of love for writing and myself soon,

Mel

Untitled 50 First Dates Romcom

“I don’t think you’re straight, Silver, I just think you haven’t found the right girl yet.” Silver rolls her deep green eyes at her best friend’s comment before signaling to the jarringly hot bartender for another water. 

“Jade, I would love to be gayer, but I just think it’s time we face the possibility that I might not be into women.” The bartender lets out a strangled laugh he tries to disguise as a cough before walking back down the bar to another customer. 

As if not hearing Silver at all, Jade perks up excitedly and shouts, “I’ve got it!” The old, white-bearded man at the other end of the bar startles, spilling his beer as he peers down at them. “What if we did like a fifty first dates challenge or something! Like the movie!!” Jade jumps out of her barstool and starts pacing manically. She’s only had one vodka soda over the last hour but she’s hopped up on the adrenaline of having just told her mom that she was getting engaged to the beautiful trans-femme model of a partner she’s been with for barely three weeks. Jade and Faye are lesbian stereotype u-hauling after a whirlwind love affair that started while they were both living with other partners. Silver thought about trying to talk Jade out of it, but then met Faye and realized that there was no way either of them were making a mistake in putting their all into each other. They were so in love it was impossible to disagree with their choices. Silver realizes that Jade is still talking when she slams her hands down on the bar in front of Silver to get her attention. 

“This is going to be SO FUN! I’ll set up and be in charge of your dating profile, I’ll keep a spreadsheet of all of the dates you go on, and make sure we get to fifty before you decide if any of them get a second date. Okay, yes. This is definitely going to work. We’re going to find you a wife before the summer ends.” 

Jade takes a breath and Silver takes that as an opportunity to point out that that’s absolutely not the plot of the movie and has Jade even seen 50 First Dates? How could she not have seen 50 First Dates? It’s a classic and Adam Sandler is the cutest in that one. Jade isn’t listening to her, lost in her Virgo planning mode, so Silver lets her mind wander. She wonders if she’d be into a woman who looked like Adam Sandler. She observes Jade, still talking, in her basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt that doesn’t match. Her not-quite-buzz-cut-but-short-dark-hair. Her soft, brown eyes. Holy shit, Jade looks like Adam Sandler. How has she never noticed this before? 

“Holy shit, Jade, did anyone ever tell you that you look like a female Adam Sandler?” Jade stops pacing, looks down at her outfit, shrugs, and then continues talking through the plan that Silver stopped listening to after “spreadsheets”. Was she attracted to Jade? Adam Sandler was her type, but no. Jade was her best friend since they were six years old. If she was attracted to her she probably would have realized by now. Jade was attractive in an effortless masc kind of way that Silver found appealing, but when she really sat with the idea of attraction, she didn’t feel anything like that for Jade. She hadn’t really felt anything like that in a long time. Maybe ever. She’d really only ever dated women.Everyone was queer in the small town where Jade and Silver had grown up. She’d moved to the city after college and realized, jarringly, that straight people were much more mainstream than her little sheltered town led her to believe. It was like a whole other world cracked open where being straight, not even bi, was just accepted. She’s just come back for the summer to help with her dad but this is her home. She thinks about how weird it might be if she were the token straight in this community and how she’d feel like such an outsider. She didn’t want her dads to be disappointed. She didn’t want Jade to be disappointed. 

The bartender brings her over a basket of fries that she doesn’t remember ordering. Before she can ask, he says, “Seemed like you could use a little something,” with a wink in Jade’s direction. She is mesmerized by the honey thickness of his voice and the feeling that shoots through her body from his attention being on her. 

“I’m Fox, by the way.” A shiver runs up her spine as she reaches out to take his outstretched hand. 

“Silver,” she manages to get out. Jade pauses her pacing and eyes Fox. She sits back down, picking up a few of Solver’s fries and thanking Fox as a way of dismissal. Jade pulls a concealed laptop out of her bag and, could you believe, opens up an excel sheet. 

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you look up at me each night as if I’m the most magical being you’ve ever seen.

you call me by name and make sure everyone around you wonders in my beauty alongside you.

last night you told your mama that I was following you home because I love you so much.

wouldn’t you know, that’s true.

I would follow you anywhere you sweet, magical creature.

you think I’m the magical one, the ethereal being you get to look up into the sky and see every night, but really, it’s you.

you shine and glow and exist in a way that most of us cannot even fathom in dreams.

you’re so full of stardust and beauty and I want nothing more than to exist half as bright as you do.

love always,

luna

we’re at the place I yearned for now, he naps on his own mostly. he still, more often than not, falls asleep on my body when nap time comes around, but is easily transferred from my arms to his bed, giving me space to rest my body and my mind. I try not to do chores when he’s sleeping - even though I’m not a napper myself, I like to let the time be time where I get rest. whether that’s with this, right now, writing so my thoughts can clear, or laying on the couch and reading a book, I try to be intentional with how I spend nap times.

even though I spent so much time wishing for this current reality, now that we’re here, I miss holding him while he sleeps. there is so much grief in watching your kid get older and smarter and more independent. joy, immense joy, pride like I’ve never felt before, but grief too.

so much of my world revolves around this human that I created and I wouldn’t change a thing. but just two and a half years in, I find myself worried about what will be left of me when he doesn’t need me as much anymore. when he starts going off to play with friends more often than he wants to play with me. when he has school and things to do outside of our bubble of each other. when he thinks i’m annoying or cringe or whatever terms they’ll use when he’s a little older.

who will I be when I am not the center of his world anymore? will he will always be the center of mine?

double planets

maybe we’re not each other’s centers but rather he is the world and I am his moon. I orbit around him keeping him in balance. providing a light when things go dark. keeping the tides of his oceans cycling.

or maybe he’s my sun and i’m the world. he anchors me into who I am. cycling around him because he keeps me flourishing, bright, alive. he shines so I can grow and thrive.

or maybe we’re a pair of planets orbiting each other - keeping each other centered in the continuous cycling of the gravitational pull that keeps us moving in the directions we need to go. if one of us is off balance, we’re both off balance. if one of us is thriving, we’re both thriving.

whatever we are, we need each other and I am trying to soak in this time as much as I possibly can, even on the days where I feel like the darkest of clouds is ascending over me. we are not existing just the two of us in our own solar system - we have other planets and satellites and moons and suns and stars all around us. people who are orbiting in proximity to us. but we are a double planet or a binary star, sometimes colliding lovingly with others around us but firmly connected to each other.

change

all’s this to say, there very well may come a day when it’s not just the two of us anymore. I’ve been so conscious of the preciousness of this time together, holding space for the yearning and gratitude my future self is holding for the times when it was just the two of us. it’s a unique thing to be conscious of a future where I’ll miss the present while I’m still in it. but I know I will. whether that’ll be because we add to our family or grow into new dynamics with each other and the people around us, I will always hold this time as a period of time I’m most grateful for. even when the days feel hard and never ending and I long for someone else to come in and take care of me. I wouldn’t change getting to be here now.

light

at this stage of things, I am woken up in the most loving way almost every morning. my kid is two and a half, and he comes into my bed at some point during the night when he stirs and finds himself without me. he wakes up before me almost every morning, and gives my cheek a light touch as he says, “I love you mom,” to bring me into the morning.

when we walk our dog, he looks for flowers and picks them saying “look, I got this for you, mom.” or sometimes he’ll just snuggle into my body and say, “I’m so lucky, mom.”

I’m always startled by the ways he openly expresses his love, a mirror to the way I do so for him. confirmation that the things I say and the way I love matters. and not just that it matters, but it’s reciprocated. we love eachother so fiercely, so unabashedly authentic, so intuitively, that I don’t have to wonder if any other love would compare, because I know it won’t. our souls were made for each other. I sometimes wonder if he was my parent in another life. if we go back and forth caring for each other in different roles and that’s why it feels so natural to do so now.

the other night as we walked into the yard to take the dog out before bed, we were met with a sparkle of fireflies. our yard was full of them. it felt like magic. and my kid lit up from the light of the fireflies and the sunshine joy in his soul and looked at me and said, “mom, look, I got fireflies for you.”

part of me thinks he really did. that he’s so full of magic and light that he made them show up for me.

I’ve been in this pause state - an in between - before.

Before things change. Before that one thing officially ends. Before the other thing officially begins. Before something major happens to me. Before I start the next chapter of my life.

I’ve been living in the same home for nearly a year and a half and I’ve been living like I’m getting ready to move. I only, in the last few months, hung photos on the walls. I’ve just started to really consider what it would feel like to let this house be my home instead of a pitstop on to whatever’s next for me. But the thing is, I don’t really know what’s next. I think I know. I have a pretty good idea about what I’d like to be next. But I don’t really know anything other than where I am today.

I have boxes of books stacked in my bedroom, never given the time to unpack and let them breathe. I have clothes organized in piles and in baskets because I never made the effort to get a piece of bedroom furniture to store my things in. I have an old carpet from the last house I lived in taking up the entirety of my living room floor even though I hate the way it looks. I have my older tarot and oracle decks stored in a closet with the boxes of wires and forgotten jackets that my ex-husband left behind when he moved out. I rarely use my good plates, opting for paper instead, because I haven’t bought a new drying rack for my counter.

It all feels so silly written out like that. What am I waiting for? Why am I living in an unnecessary state of limbo that I’ve created?

But I haven’t been writing as much. I haven’t been creating the way I know I do when things feel like they’re moving. I am just standing still, waiting for whatever is coming next.

I had a moment the other day, talking to a friend who knows me better than most, and admitted that I’ve been struggling with some basic executive functioning and I couldn’t understand why. I don’t check the mail every day - I can’t answer an email - doing the dishes feels impossible - basic chores and keeping my house in order is feeling draining - why can’t I do the things?

She lovingly reflected back to me that anyone navigating the number of things I was, the multiple unknowns or unfinished things at once, would be struggling the way that I am, maybe even more severely. That, of course things were feeling hard. I was taking care of myself and my kid and my dog and if anything had to slip through the cracks, let it be emails. Or putting the laundry away. And that I’m one person, we’re not meant to be such solitary creatures.

And so - I’ve been feeling like I’m a huge dark cloud waiting for the sky to open up so I can explode into a rainshower. Holding my breath, going through the motions, waiting for what’s next.

But what’s next is next and where I am is where I need to be. So maybe today I’ll put my laundry away, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be gentle with myself when it feels hard to manage and remind myself that there is much life to be had in the in between.

In the reiki class I teach, we talked this week about deja vu and the way normal people experience it versus how witchy, intuitive people might. We talked about how the feeling of I’ve been here before or a distant sense of familiarity hits different when you can pinpoint the exact moment in time that you’d dreamed or visualized the current moment without the present context. When the present moment feels more like reliving a memory than an unexplainable sense of familiarity.

I talked about how this happens to me more often lately than it used to, where I’ll be present in a somewhat mundane moment and have a jarring sense of memory of when I first experienced the moment. Often, it was at a time where I didn’t have the context for what was happening, unsure of why I was dreaming or visualizing a work meeting, or eating chicken nuggets with a kid at a table in a house I’d never seen before. Why it felt important to be present in these dream states of moments that felt insignificant, was uncertain to me, but as I enter into the moment in my physical body, it becomes clear.

I believe that deja vu is a sense of firm and certain confirmation that the choices you made were the right ones to get you on the path that you were meant to be living. That somehow, each small moment leading up to this, seemingly mundane moment of your day, set you up for ending up exactly where you1 planned to be.

If you watch the good place, I like to think deja vu is michael and janet letting us know that we’re headed in the right direction, we’re living our purpose. They’re keeping track and cheering us on for being exactly where we need to be to get to what’s next.

on free will

I’ve had a handful of experiences where I have a vision or a dream of something that I’m certain is going to happen, maybe even sure of the timeframe of it, and then it doesn’t. Unfortunately, or fortunately, a factor in visions becoming integrated into reality is the concept of free will. We might have experiences or choices that need to be made by or with other people that impact us getting to the place we’ve already seen in our heads.

I’m fully all in on the concept of multiple consciousnesses living in different realities all at once. This one that we’ve chosen to be present in is the one that feels and breathes and experiences life in full color. We might get glimpses into others when we dream or when we tune in to our intuition or highest self, but this reality is the one we’re physically present in. Sometimes, we might get glimpses into realities that feel like super vivid and embodied dreams where things are happening that we can’t explain or don’t have the context for. Sometimes, we might feel that sense of deja vu when another reality or version of us has experienced this moment before or is currently in the same place in time as we are.

When it comes to things not happening, or changing, I know for me, I get more intensified anxiety or overwhelm, maybe even urgency, to control the situation when it feels like it’s slipping from the path I’ve envisioned. This might be a psychic thing, it might be a virgo thing, it’s definitely a me thing - but I try to grasp harder onto control over the details and logistics when I can see someone else shifting the reality I already visualized as what was about to happen.

Often times, when I do eventually get to the thing I wanted or thought would happen, or potentially I get to something different or better, I understand, and sometimes even agree, that what didn’t happen, what I saw and thought and hoped for, wasn’t actually what I needed.

on if I’d made a different choice

Let’s go back to the very beginning, as a twenty-one year old with a crush on my best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend. Knowing the outcome and where I would be now, would I have still made the choice to convince him to fall in love with me?

What if: 
She didn’t pursue him
She didn't convince him to fall in love with her
And then she didn’t meet his friends
She didn’t have one of those friends refer her to a tattoo artist who matched “her vibe”
And she didn’t have the tattoo artist connect her to a reiki practitioner 
She and that reiki practitioner didn’t become her best friends
She didn’t have a magical reiki experience where she met her future kid 
She didn’t decide to come off of birth control
She didn’t get pregnant halfway through her doctorate program
She didn’t decide to quit her job because she needed to focus on her health and pregnancy
She didn’t get to be home and spend every moment with her grandpa before his death
She didn’t have a magical reiki experience with her grandpa as he was preparing to take his last breaths
She didn’t have a magical ethereal baby who was deeply connected to her grandpa and her highest self
She didn’t get sick after she gave birth and have it written off as recovery
She didn’t almost die and need her parents to take care of her and her baby
She didn’t sign up for a grief companionship class with Deathwives to help her process her postpartum grief, her separation grief, and grandpa grief - a class that connected her to a forever friend and a dream job
She didn’t finish her doctorate
She didn’t become a single mother
She didn’t get to experience the immense joy that comes with becoming who she was meant to be

on becoming the current version of ourselves

I think there are a lot of things that impact the outcome of who we become from one moment to the next. Maybe if I didn’t slow down to notice the butterfly that flew passed me yesterday, I wouldn’t have rushed through cutting my bagel so that I could get out of the house to pick up my kid and I wouldn’t have cut my finger causing me to stop in my tracks and breathe, noticing the unwarranted urgency in my body and taking the time to let it go.

I think about how even though I am a witchy time traveller who can jump around from one place to the next and acknowledge that time isn’t real - there is also this truth in that I will never again be in this exact moment in my body. As I sit here typing this, there were so many things that had to happen and choices I had to make to lead me to this exact version of me in this particular moment, sitting at the desk in my best friend’s office click clacking my thoughts into this substack draft before I log in to a zoom call to teach a sold out class that I created from my brain.

A prompt from my writing group this morning was a line from a Becky Chambers book2 that says, “no object should be treated as disposable.” What came from that for me was a big yes, and also again and again is collectively, we treat the human experience as disposable. We move through the mundane without savoring the pieces of this experience that make it what it’s supposed to be. We bypass the small choices and moments as insignificant when they could alter the entire timeline of your existence.

How can anything be treated as disposable when each moment is fleeting - never remembered exactly as it happened because we all have biases and filters on the parts of our brains that control memory. How can anything be treated as disposable when we are such temporary creatures - changing each second into a new version of who we are meant to be and who we are becoming.

How can anything be treated as disposable when every single moment and experience and object and person that’s come through my path from birth to this point has shaped me into who I am right now - has led me on the journey of discovering this exact moment in time. How can we treat anything as disposable when it all matters so much, even the things that feel like they don’t matter. How can we treat anything as disposable when our lives are centered around things that are temporary. I want to savor every minute of it. Savor every bite of a fresh baked brownie that my mom made special for me. Every nudge from my dog trying to get under the covers with me. Every laugh from and with my kid doing something funny. Every shift in my energy from tired to joyous to excited to content to drained. Every song and sound and dance. Every sleep and dream and snuggle. Every grief. Every change. Every panic and loss of control. Every death. Every birth. Physical and not.

When we think about choices and I consider going back to that girl who made that boy fall in love with her - wondering about if I’d done something different. I ponder if there’s a version of me out there, one who didn’t pursue him. Would she have found her way here, to me, through some alternate path? Or would she have ended up a completely and totally different person? Maybe she would have intersected with this current me in a handful of ways through different circumstances, or maybe her life would have gone into a totally different and unrecognizable path. Maybe we would have been similar, but she wouldn’t have become me. And she needed to become me.

It all leads us to exactly where we are. To exactly who we are. If I made any different choices, I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be me now.

And what a gift to get to be this version of me.

To have gotten to learn so much about myself and who I wanted to become. To have become her and become aware of the process of continuing to change and evolve into who I’m going to be.

To get to fall in love with myself again and again and learn to love each new version of me as I grow and change. To fully understand the gift that is this human experience, even when it’s hard and sad and exhausting, because I chose to come here in this time with these people to do these things.

So no, no object or experience or human or decision should be treated as disposable. Nothing should. And no, if I could go back and change anything, do anything different, become any other version of me, I would do it all the same to end up exactly here, in this place in time all over again. To become this version of me, all over again.

She was old and wise. She stayed present as we grew around her. She held us in our growth and periods of change. She watched us laugh and cry and didn’t falter when our frustration was loud. She absorbed our love and gifted us with the beauty that came from patience.

Every morning, afternoon, and night, my son and I take our dog for a walk around the yard. Sometimes we play and run around, sometimes we blow bubbles, sometimes we talk to birds or bunnies or squirrels, sometimes we pick flowers, sometimes we don’t do any of these things and rush through the chore of taking the dog out – but always, we pause and talk to her.

She was the tree in our backyard.

At two and a half years old, my son is no stranger to discussions about loss and change and the grief that comes. He watches the Disney movies like Moana and Finding Nemo and a handful of others (almost all of them). He understands that his Lola’s dog, Peter, died and that means he’s not in the physical world with us anymore. He has a strong and steady relationship with his great grandpa who died before he was born. He knows and understands that his dad used to live with us and now lives somewhere else and that it’s okay if he feels sad about that sometimes.

I am a death worker and a grief specialist. I teach classes on grief and loss, on death and dying, and it’s one of the things I center so much of my life around. I know all grief is different and needs to be felt.

And so here I am, writing a eulogy for the tree in my backyard.

My landlord decided to be proactive and hire a tree-removal service to get rid of the old tree before it started to rot. He noticed it was dying and thought it was the right thing to do. What he didn’t see was that my son was loving it back to life.

When spring came, and the leaves started to grow back around us, she didn’t have any. She stayed bare and naked but still stood tall. She didn’t seem like she was close to the end of her life, just like she needed a rest. Like maybe she’d stopped performing for the other beings around her and just wanted to exist for a bit. We kept talking to her, giving her hugs, telling her we were grateful for her presence.

And then one day, leaves started to bloom. Beautiful lavender and wildflowers started to grow around the base of her trunk. She wasn’t performing the way she was expected to, but she was creating beauty in the way she observed we’d appreciate.

We thanked her for her gifts. We smelled her flowers and kept hugging her. We talked to her about our days and told her how grateful we were for how she was growing with us.

The night before they came to take her away, we held her for an extra few minutes, we told her how much we were going to miss her, how glad we were that she’d been with us for the last 16 months since we’d moved in. We told her that we loved her and would miss her and hoped that whatever she turned into next felt magical and wonderful for her. We took a piece of her bark to keep to honor her, and then we said goodnight. She was still there in the morning when we went out for our first walk so we hugged her again and said our final goodbyes.

We watched from the window as a strange man climbed to the very top and started to take pieces of her – just a little stump at a time, letting her fall to the ground with a loud thump and a little shake in the earth.

As he made his way down, he got to her branches with a few leaves and let them fall without a care. He made his way back to the ground and started to saw away her middle. He sawed until he got into the core as two other men pulled the ropes connected to her top, letting gravity handle the rest as she slowly tumbled toward the soft grass. “She’s falling!” my son said. He was enthralled, curious, contemplative, and sad as we watched their process. We sat and looked out of my bedroom window for the whole thing.

Once she’d fallen, they started to cut her into smaller pieces, just a short stump remaining in the dirt, surrounded by the gifted wildflowers she’d created for us. I had a moment of hope, that maybe they’d leave this part of her for us to love. That maybe we could turn her into a small seat or table. That we could picnic with this part of her, talk to her and see what came from her roots.

And then they came in with another machine and dramatically extracted the rest of her from the earth. Her stump, the roots, the flowers. Gone in an instant. We watched them put pieces of her into a woodchipper until she was nothing but a memory. Before we knew it, there was fresh dirt over the spot she’d just been taken from. No trace of her left behind besides the small piece of bark that now sits on our alter.

We watched her slowly get older, decay, consider coming back to life, and then be destroyed bit by bit until eventually, she transformed. We thought she could have stayed that way forever, but maybe she needed to go. Maybe she needed to die so that something new could be born. Maybe she would have lived in that half-alive state forever if someone else hadn’t pushed her to go.

She made me wonder if it’s actually a kindness instead of a tragedy to let go and let die. To offer a proactive ending before the suffering becomes greater, louder, more drastic. To acknowledge that even with some beauty and growth, even with moments of real joy, death is inevitable. Death can be kind. Endings might be better than waiting to see if we can come back to life. Because sometimes, we don’t have room for new things until we let the old die.

We held our grief for this loving presence that no longer exists. For the loss of the stable consistency that she provided and the expectation that she’d always be there with us.

And then we went outside and said hello to the new dirt. We put our hands over top of it and welcomed it home. We considered what could grow in this spot and decided to plant some seeds. We’re not sure what exactly we’re going to plant yet, what we’ll want to grow in place of the loss, but we’re holding space for the possibility of something new. Maybe even something better.

if you felt connected to our tree - here’s a piece I wrote from her point of view:

For the entirety of his absence, he’s been the most present.

He was my best friend, one of my favorite people, for my entire life, and so much of my world was centered around the things he taught me to be. His death was beautiful and hard and necessary and something I would have prevented forever if I could have. I dreaded and feared it for so long, but I never felt like there was a moment that I didn’t understand the divine timing of it.

From before I’d even gotten pregnant, I had vivid dreams of my grandpa present for the birth of my first child. There was something magical and ethereal about him in the dream spaces, something young and healthy, that didn’t match the present, real life version of him when I’d wake up. I was sure he would be present for my birth experience, I just didn’t know how the human version of him was going to be able to make it work.

I’d also had vivid dreams about my grandpa’s death for years before it happened. Whether it was my subconscious preparing me for the hardest loss I’d ever experienced, or my psychic powers coming in to show me what was going to happen, I carried the anticipatory grief with me for many years.

The timing of my pregnancy and the timing of his death left me in a space to be with him almost every day before he died. I was cautious being in a hospital that late in my pregnancy, not wanting to catch anything, but I wasn’t working and I didn’t have a baby yet to be home with. It needed to be what it was.

Two months after my grandpa died, I walked through the hospital halls toward an operating room, by myself. They don’t let anyone come in with you for the first part of preparing for a cesarean birth, and I was terrified. I had low blood sugar because I wasn’t allowed to eat. I was tired from over a month of being too large and uncomfortable and in pain to sleep well. I was in deep grief and deep anticipation for the changes that had already occurred and the way my life was about to never be the same again.

Because it’s a risk to the baby, when you have a scheduled c-section, they don’t let you have anxiety medication until after the baby is out. It’s a risk to have the baby in a somewhat sedated state as they pull them out and so I had to go into this major surgery, awake, physically numb, and too aware of everything that was happening around me.

I did my best to stay calm. Reminding myself that in just a few more minutes, I’d have my baby. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then, my grandpa was there. He was walking toward me slowly, a baby - my baby, in his arms. He was coming to hand the baby to me. Tears in his eyes, face beaming with pride and joy. He gave me a kiss on the forehead, and then I opened my eyes and my baby was next to me.

Two and a half years later, my kid talks to his great grandpa as if they’re old pals. He talks to him while he plays with his cars. He talks to him when we stop at the gas station. He talks to him when he’s asleep and when he’s awake. He points to photos of him at any age and says, “that’s joe, my brother,” or “hi, grandpa joe.”

He tells me all of the things my grandpa comes to tell him.

Last week, he said, “Grandpa Joe got me a present.”

I replied, “wow, baby, that’s so nice of him, what did he get you?”

He said, “Nooooooo, mom, he got YOU a present,”

“Oooooooh,” I said back, copying the inflictions he’d made with my voice, “what did he get me?”

“He got me, I’m your present,” he said without hesitation.

What started silly, surprised me, and made my heart burst at the seams. Tears welled in my eyes, my kid touching my face as I took in what he’d said. I eventually said, “you’re the best present ever,” and then smothered him in kisses until we were both cackling and chanting, “BEST !! PRESENT !! EVER !!”

My kid is my present this mother’s day. He’s only two and not heading to a store to buy me a card or a gift, which isn’t what I want anyway.

We sit at the kitchen table and mix watercolors, making paintings for his grandmas and aunts, he smiles at me and says, “paint this one, mom.” Best present ever.

When he comes home from a long day with his dad, he hugs me tight and says, “hi mom.” Best present ever.

As I get him ready for bed tonight, he rests his head in the crook of my neck and lets out a little contented “hmm.” Best present ever.

He wakes me up in the morning with a gentle hand to my cheek and a kiss on the forehead and says, “I love you, mama.” Best present ever.

Nothing will ever be better than this.

Except everything that comes next.

Being his mom is the best thing I’ve ever been and the best thing I’ll ever be. I’m so much more than “mom” but I am me because I get to be who I am to him. I get to see myself through his eyes every single day and love myself in a way I haven’t known how to before.

I get to see the love I give him mirrored back in the love he gives me and I couldn’t be prouder of the mother I am.

Of the space I hold.

Of the environment I’ve cultivated.

I get to be fully invested in the thoughts of a toy truck or the wildflowers growing in the yard or the bird perched on the fence, because he teaches me how. And because I teach him how. I get to be weird and silly and unmasked and get to see how safe he feels to be his own version of weird.

I get to exist in the bubble of the two of us so often that it feels jarring to be alone but also like it helps me take in every moment with him, so as to not miss a single thing.

Growing together is an indescribable bliss swirled around with patience and presence and discomfort and challenge to make the perfect potion to make us who we need to be.

Being a mother, being his mother, has given me the gift of true presence in a mind and world that rarely allow room for that on its own.

Best present ever.

We’re sitting in the living room, having milky again and hoping it tires us out enough to get back to sleep, and out of nowhere, the lamp turns off and my kid starts giggling.

I smile to myself, wondering if he’s doing some magic or if one of our spirit friends are visiting us and trying to help me out.

He woke me up at 11:30 after a two hour stretch of sleep, restless and itchy, likely from his seasonal allergies. I try everything to help him settle back into sleep. Milky, cuddles, my blanket, his, sleeping in mom’s bed, laying on the couch, none of it works.

We get up and try changing his clothes and diaper. I put ointment on his body where he’s itching, after doing a quick wipe down - as well as he’ll let me.

Of course, I know how risky this is. We’re not sleeping anyway, but getting up and turning a light on usually means good sleep is hopeless for at least a few hours.

A little bit later I ask him if I could give him reiki. He says “sure, mom” and lays down next to me. As I’m doing reiki for him, he starts to laugh. His body settles for a few moments, and then I get a strong and clear visual of him and my grandpa sitting at a table with lovevery picnic set, drinking “hot tea” and laughing together, going back and forth calling each other “sonny boy” in funny voices.

He tells me my grandpa visits him often. When we get gas, when we’re eating a meal, when we’re out for a walk, in the most random of places and in the places I’d assume him to be, my kid will let me know, “Grandpa Joe is here.” Sometimes he has something to say, sometimes he’s just there to say hi because he misses us. I believe him every time.

I ask him now if grandpa’s here, if they’re drinking tea together and he laughs even harder. He says, “hot tea grandpa” and then kicks his legs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

I laugh with him and give up on reiki - Grandpa isn’t the right person to call on when I want my kid to sleep.

We try for cuddles again. He suddenly is very urgently needing to check on our dog who’s asleep on the couch. I remind him to let the Franny Hot Dog sleep, and he tip toes out of the room as quietly as his toddler body allows. I walk out of the bedroom a few minutes later to find him sitting on the couch quietly next to the dog.

I snap a picture that we look at and laugh about for another half hour or so.

I think, how lucky am I. Awake at 2am, exhausted and desperate for sleep, but laughing and cuddling with my kid, who’s much happier than someone who’s been awake for 3 hours in the middle of the night should be.

I let it sink in that this is maybe the first real heavy duty sleepless night we’ve had just the two of us. And we’re doing fine. I let myself settle into a comfortable acceptance of where we are and what’s happening. Acknowledging the absence of my typical state of panic when this kind of thing would happen.

I find myself holding grief and love for the past version of me who felt incapable of handling extended wake ups and not feeling well. Who handled it, but suffered significantly.

I send her some love.

For the first time maybe ever, he wants to go back into his own bed instead of mine. He lets me lay him down still awake, I tuck him in and he sends a shocked and suspicious mom back to my bed.

I don’t trust it, and I shouldn’t. Only moments later his little footsteps echo through the house and before I know it, his little face is pressed up against mine whispering, “mama, can you snuggle me?”

I find myself holding grief and love for the future, well-rested version of me who will go to sleep and wake up alone as her kid grows and becomes more independent. I know she’ll be grateful for sleep, but it’ll be bittersweet. I send her some love.

Tonight though, I hold my baby until we eventually, finally, drift off to sleep.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written to you all. Admittedly, I’ve realized that I’ve been more overwhelmed than I like to acknowledge to myself or others. I’ve been working a lot, going through some major life transitions, taking care of my kid full time, and neglecting myself in ways that feel really challenging.1

Even writing this, I’ve had to stop to do something else, losing my train of thought and attempting to pick up where I left off but not actually able to remember what I was going to say.

I am spread thin, and I’m going through a phase of forgetting what and who I am and do when I’m just on my own. So much of my life revolves around my kid, rightfully and gratefully so. And because of that, my very limited free time is usually spent working. My mom watches my kid two days a week while I go work from an office. And he’s with his dad two evenings when I’m also, working.2 Realistically, I have little to no unstructured time, and that’s my own fault. I’ve scheduled so much of my working hours around when my kid is with other people because I don’t want to have to work when I’m with him, it’s almost impossible to, and I don’t want to work after he goes to sleep, because admittedly, most nights I’m going to sleep when he does.

I don’t have the type of life where I can stay up after my kid is in bed or wake up before he gets up. Our sleep needs are out of synch with him needing less than me. What this means is that we’ve cultivated a life and routine that is almost always together. I love him, I love him so much that I want this. I want to spend every possible moment with him. I don’t want to miss a single second of what he’s doing or how he’s growing. I leave as much room as I can for him to play independently, to play with people who aren’t me, and for us to do activities together too, but there’s nothing quite like the feeling of sitting on the couch with my little one as he tells me the story of his day. Where we laugh for minutes on end about the lawn blowers3 and the noises they make. I wouldn’t change anything about our time together.

But here’s where it gets tricky.

I find myself in another phase of life where I don’t know who I am outside of his mother. Outside of the educator that teaches deathwork and social justice. I am many things to many people. A friend, a daughter, a sister, a neighbor.4 I’m a teacher and a writer and a collaborator. I know who I am to you, to my mom, to my sister, to my kid. To my friends. But who am I to me?5

As I was writing this, I got a timely notification from costar with my horoscope stating, “your idea of yourself is wildly different to how others see you.”

It goes on to say, “stop trying so hard to impress. the confidence you think you’re missing is exactly what everyone else sees in you. your biggest critic isn’t them - it’s you.”

Which, honestly, is accurate. I think I see myself wildly different than others do. I fear I don’t really know who I am or what I like or what I want to do. I question how I’ve changed and if I would recognize myself if I were my younger self getting a peek into who I am now. I have imposter syndrome often about the work I do and my qualifications even though I’ve literally gotten a doctoral degree and years of work experience and personal life experience that support my knowing what I’m talking about.

I struggle with remembering what brings me joy when I’m totally alone. I fall into a deep hole of social media trying to find pieces of myself in the images and highlight reels of others.6 I’ll fill my alone time with work or chores or socializing because I want to optimize my time as best as I can, but also because I’m not comfortable with myself in the ways I used to be.

I get this sense of disconnection from who I am that feels overwhelming. But also these bursts of clarity when I give myself space to tune into myself. It’s quite disorienting to feel so much7. I know who I am. I love who I am. I show up for everyone else in ways that feel aligned with my purpose and I hold spaces so well. I am a good friend and mother and daughter and sister. I am a good teacher and co-worker and advocate and energy worker. I’m passionate about social justice and deathwork and writing. I like to problem solve for and with others. I like to be creative in community and create spaces that feel welcoming to all. I’m good at all of the things I do, the virgo in me would have it no other way. But who am I when I’m not fulfilling a purpose to someone else? Who am I when I am just existing for myself, by myself?

I’m not sure I know the answer to that anymore. And maybe it’s time to figure it out.

another note; when I started this series, the intention was to connect with my loved ones who aren’t here anymore. to write to the people who have departed one way or another and update them on my life as if they were reading it. to give a glimpse into my week and my thoughts and what i’d done and felt. and it’s turned into a space for me to connect with myself and all of you too. which feels really lovely. this week, I hit a milestone of 100 subscribers. 100 people feels so major. so thank you, to all of you for reading along or cheering silently. I love to know that someone out there is reading my words, and would love if you could tell me if I write something that touches you or relates to an experience you have too. part of feeling lost is also feeling isolated and I’m working on getting myself out of that a little bit at a time. so here’s to all 100 of you, I love you, thank you for being here, talk soon xo

This week marks three years since I found out I was pregnant and it’s been making me think a lot about who I’ve become in this time. One of the greatest parts of becoming a parent for me is feeling like I’m a more authentic version of myself than I’d been before. I’m also a really specific version of me that wouldn’t have existed if I’d decided to become a parent at a different time, or even not at all. I’ve thought a lot about what would have happened if I’d decided to get married later - and then I think about how my uncle being at my wedding was so important to me, our last visit before he died. We wouldn’t have had that if my wedding was any other time. I wonder about who I would have become if I’d gotten pregnant later - and then I think about the timelines of my grandpa’s death and my baby’s birth and the perfectly aligned timing of it all.

The thing is, we can think in circles forever and ever about what we could have done differently and what things would be like if we’d made different choices. But this reality is the one I’m present in and each of the pieces of the puzzle that’s created this timeline are necessary and important to get me to where I am. And I really, truly, wouldn’t change anything.

I don’t know where I’ll end up or how I’ll get there. I don’t know which potential versions of me will come from the different choices I make - there are endless possibilities that any small choice or perspective change might alter. But I’m excited to find out.

What I watched

I had a day this week where I had a lot to do and no energy to do it - so I watched the whole new season of xo kitty instead. Loved it so much, am always in for a teen drama pls and thank you.

What brought me joy

I’ve been trying to lean into this more often than not, taking in the small moments with my kid and remembering that this is the only time he’ll ever be this age. That there is so much grief with growth and getting to watch him change from a baby to a human with his own thoughts and opinions and ideas is such a freakin’ trip and something I don’t want to forget even a minute of. This week, we’ve been taking walks to the water, looking at the jellyfish in the river by our house, running in the wind and pretending we can fly. We’ve snuggled on the couch and looked for the perfect twig in the backyard. We’ve had meals at the table together, chatting about whatever random things pop into our heads and singing songs we make up. I don’t know if anything has ever been better.

What I created

I wrote this little piece during a prompted writing session of a class I teach and it felt really lovely and exciting to write something different.

Thanks for being here, loves. Talk soon xo

There are flowers around my roots that have started to bloom. Wild ones that came from somewhere else and decided to grow with me this season. The littler one points them out, she doesn’t spend more than a breath or two looking down at them.

And then something new happens. The little rectangle isn’t in her hand anymore. The littler one touches her cheek the way I’ve been trying to every time she gets close. He says, “look, mama, look at the tree,” and they get closer to me. They get close enough that I can touch them both, the littler one reaching for me - we meet in the middle. He says, “hi tree, nice to meet you,” as if we’re not the oldest of friends already. As if we haven’t been birds together in another lifetime, brothers in the next. But his greeting makes her pause. She looks at me, really looks at me for the first time. She lets her hand gently brush the pieces of me that have reached out to her. She says, “thank you,” to either me or her littler one, or maybe the both of us. She lets the dog roam on his own time. She follows the littler one as he explores the flowers and the branches that have fallen off of my siblings scattered around. They pick wildflowers that have grown around my roots, a gift for them from mother herself. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever notice. I wasn’t sure that she’d see what was right there for her the whole time. But she did.

Dear Departed,

This week I had some wild vivid dreams, I let my body get acquainted with a new medication, I took care of myself, and I rested when I needed to. Part of the recent exploration into needing to write more for myself is the idea that I’ve been moving non-stop so the things can’t catch me. The grief, the exhaustion, the uncertainty. If I don’t sit still long enough for it to linger, I can pretend it’s not there. But pretending it’s not there doesn’t mean it’s actually gone away. This week, I tried to let it show itself. I ran away less, moved slower, sat with the moment I was in more often than I had been - trying to just let it be what it was.

I had some moments of real joy - time outside with my kid, meetings with writing friends, a blissful walk around the neighborhood with my dog on a 75 degree day.

I read a romance novel that really lit me up and inspired me. I had a few meetings that made me excited about my work and the way I’m reaching people I didn’t expect to. I taught classes that I got to create and it was really really wonderful and fulfilling.

I also had moments of utter exhaustion and overwhelm. I haven’t had time to clean my house and that makes me feel like I’m failing. I’m only one person, but I should be able to do it all. I should be able to keep the dishes clean, to empty the fridge as soon as food goes bad, to vacuum the floors more often, to put the toys away and fold the blankets my dog fluffs up every night. I want a cleared kitchen table and laundry put away. I want a spotless bathroom and a house with everything in its place.

But such is not reality as a single person with a two year old and dog and multiple jobs. I do my best and I’m working on accepting that. And asking for help when I need it.

Fourteen

I had a moment of realization this week that gave me a deep sigh of acceptance and relief in ways I didn’t know I needed. I am a full time stay at home mom, and also work four (yes four) jobs. I teach for two universities as an adjunct, I teach multiple classes for LaMort, and I run a writing group and teach workshops at the office I work from 2-3 days a week. Right now, I am teaching four days a week - two days while my mom watches my kid, and two evenings when he’s with his dad for dinner. I have three full, week days with my kid where we’re home with no plans and I’ve been trying to be more conscious of not working during most of that time. What’s been happening though is that while we’re sitting on the couch, cozy, watching something together, or I’m holding my kid while he’s napping, and I get a moment of dread that I should be doing something else. That I’m behind on grading, or that I should be prepping for my next class, that I should be using my “free” time to work or to write or to do something productive.

I’m trying to lean into the idea that I should only be doing exactly what I’m doing in that moment rather than something deemed productive. I will never have this time with my kid again. He will eventually go to school and get older and maybe want to cuddle with me less. He won’t always nap on my body. He won’t always need me in this way. And so even though we spend most of our time together, and I have to clean the house and catch up on work and answer emails or text messages, letting myself lean into the truth that nothing is more important than whatever I’m doing with him has been incredibly freeing. To not feel guilt over the things that need to get done gives me more space to enjoy whatever moment I’m in with him.

I started to leave my phone on the charger in another room while we’re eating meals together - started to follow his lead with play even when I’m tired and have other things on my mind.

And so I’ll keep repeating to myself - nothing is more important than exactly what I’m doing right now.

I did a lot of things this week that feel too personal to put out into the world and I’m coming back around to the idea of writing for me and what that means. I started [redacted] for the first time and I scheduled [redacted] after a long time of overthinking it and I’m feeling really proud of myself and really emotional about both things. I’m taking steps to better care for myself and show up as a healthier version of me and that’s really a huge deal. It’s scary to make change. It’s scary to do something that might be hard before it’s better. I’m doing it though and I’m moving forward.

I haven’t had a whole lot of time for my creative outlets because my energy levels are much lower than I like them to be and my bedtime has started to overlap with my son’s. We go through our routine, I get him to sleep, and then I crash as soon as I transfer him into his bed. I’ve been doing our bedtime routines together, so that we’re both ready and I can go right to sleep without much extra work.

I am a person with high sleep needs, and my son is not. I used to sleep 10-12 hours per night, and now I’m happy to get 4 before I’m woken up. He usually wakes up during the night at some point and comes into my bed. I have it set up so that he can easily get out of his floor bed and walk into mine when he needs me. He also wakes me up every morning, so the time where I am on my own is really limited. I know there will come a time when he doesn’t need me as much though, when he sleeps more independently and consistently, so I’ll never say no to a 2am cuddle or a 6am wake up.

This week, I was reflecting on some of my regular self care routines that I cared a lot about and really stuck to before my son was born. It’s been three years this month since I got pregnant, and it feels crazy to think that there was a time before I was this version of me. But she used to wake up every morning and journal. She’d pull a few tarot cards and read before she started her day and then work and move through the day with her comfortably structured routine.

This version of me is in mom mode from the moment I open my eyes and even still when I’m asleep. I sometimes sneak in some journal or reading time while my kid watches a morning episode of one of his favorite shows1 but he’ll sometimes close my book or my journal and say, “no reading mama.” The main routine we have is that he wakes me up, we say good morning to our Franny Hot Dog2, and we snuggle on the couch for a little longer until it’s time to take Francis for a walk.

I’m sure my energy levels will continue to ebb and flow as time goes on and we go through different things - and truly, I am so grateful to have this life. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m bone deep tired. I love this life.

And I am doing my best to manage the grief that shows up for me each day. With every piece of change. With the continued need for transformation and evolution into who I am today - different from who I was yesterday, and different from who I’ll be tomorrow. The grief shapes me. And, at my core, I am who I am, who I’ve always been, the 6 year old who wrote about being afraid of her magical shoes that talked to her3. The girl with the imagination who wanted to be a writer. The girl who wanted to be a teacher when she grew up. Who wanted to be a mom. I am her. I am always her. But I’m a little bit different, both farther away from that younger me and closer to her with every new thing I do. And isn’t that the whole point? Getting closer to the core of who we’ve always been and letting the little things change as often as they need to? Letting ourselves love so big and deep that grief from loss and change transforms us totally?

I don’t know if any of this makes sense. I am tired and foggy grief brained and I just let this piece flow into whatever it wanted to become. I know I did things this week - I taught classes and met with students and talked to friends and spent time with my family. I read some of a book and I graded papers. I took care of my kid and was present and engaged. And I grieved. Because somehow, life goes on. And my departed, I will love and grieve you for all of my days. And I think, truly, I am grateful for the grief, because it gives me the chance to live a little fuller, to love a little deeper, and to be a lot more aware of what I have to lose.

Talk soon, xo

3

I found this journal a few years ago when my parents were moving and this story I wrote was my proof that I did in fact have anxiety as a kid.

My dad is eons softer than he should be based on the ways he was raised. He never cursed in front of us, he coached our sports, he was present and committed to being with us as much as he could.

I had good parents. I have good parents. They’re not perfect, but who is?

Now, as a parent myself, there are things that we disagree on with them in the grandparent role. My kid has started to look more like me as his hair has grown in longer and curlier and I can see the way they remember doing all of this with me the first time around. They don’t treat him the way they treated me, because he’s their grandkid and it’s just different. My dad is even softer than he was with us and he hates to see my son cry. My mom will stop what she’s doing at any moment to follow my son any time he says, “come on, gramma.”

We spend a lot of time with my parents. My mom babysits on the two to three days per week that I work and we have dinner with them at least twice a week. On the other days, we usually stop by their shop to say hi or have lunch and my son loves to bake scones with them. My mom does crafts with him when they’re together, my dad builds blocks over and over and watches them get knocked down. They fully embrace including him in all things and that’s one thing we always agree on.

My kid really vibes with old macdonald, and there’s a house in our neighborhood that he discovered and thinks is old macdonald’s farm. We had an unseasonably warm day this weekend and went for a longer walk and he really wanted to go into the barn of people we don’t know, so we compromised and went to our local animal sanctuary1. He wanted his grandma and grandpa to come so we invited them along and made a day of it. We powered through nap time and daylight savings, and so toward the end of our time there we started to struggle a bit.

My son is a slow to warm guy, which often I really appreciate. It gives us both a bit of buffer time to adjust to a new environment before he’s ready to run free and keeps us close while we evaluate the people in a new space. There are a few spaces though that he’s almost instantly comfortable and I have to fight him on staying close to me. The bookstore is, unsurprisingly, one of those places. When we walk in he immediately asks to get down so he can look at everything and sometimes stops looking to make sure I’m still following him. Old Macdonald’s Farm (Popcorn Park Animal Sanctuary) was another one of those places. He was so excited to see all of the animals that he wanted to be let down right away.

As we started to make our way through the park, my dad tried over and over again to get my son to stop and really look at the animals. He wanted him to take it in, to sit with him and observe, to pause and notice the monkeys or the donkey, to be excited about the lions and tigers. My kid wasn’t having it though. His little two year old body was so excited that he just ran through the park barely pausing at any animal long enough to really notice. He’d take a look when he wanted to, or turn around and ask to go back and see the camels, but I had to remind my dad that this was his experience, his first time in this kind of space, and we were there to follow his lead. He walked us through the whole park a handful of times saying, “come on, grapa, come on guys, follow me,” and so we did.

Eventually, his little body realized he’d missed a nap and he started to get more tired and more comfortable at the same time. He didn’t want to hold any hands or be held, and at one point we all paused waiting to see how far he would walk without looking back to see if we were following. The answer was that he would have kept going if we all didn’t get nervous and run to catch up with him. I definitely aspire to be the kind of parent who lets me kid explore freely and I try not to intervene too often so he gets a sense of independence. Especially after an infancy where we never disconnected from each others’ bodies for longer than short bursts. We’re deeply attached to each other and I’m both loving and grieving this period where he is excited to leave me in the dust.

After a few times of him pushing away our hands trying to hold on to his, I started to pick him up each time he refused. And every time, he cried. The first time, my dad rushed over and tried to take him to calm him down. He said, “don’t cry, buddy, what do you want to do?” To which he kept crying and didn’t calm down. I reminded my dad, and my kid, that he’s allowed to cry and be upset but he still has to follow the rules mom was setting for his safety.

The next time, I urged my mom and dad both to let me handle it on my own. I picked him up, and he cried, restating that the wanted to get down. I stayed calm and simply said, “you can get down if you agree to hold mama’s hand. let me know when your body feels calm enough to try again.” He cried for another minute or two, I comforted him as best as he let me, rubbing his back and wiping his tears and saying I was sorry that he was upset and I was there with him. Then, his little body calmed, he stopped crying abruptly and said, “I want to try again.” I asked again if he felt ready to hold my hand and he said yes and we did it.

It worked. For a while. And then he wanted to run off again, as is the way of the toddler. And so we repeated that pattern of me enforcing the rule, him not wanting to follow it, me picking him up, him crying, us co-regulating while I stayed firm in the rule, and then trying again.

I could see the stress in my parents each time we did this. I could feel the collective societal pressures of having an easy kid that doesn’t cry in public. But I stood firm. Because I know what works.

Last week I talked about consent and the importance of telling my kid why I do things and letting him express and understand what feels good for his body and what doesn’t. This was another lesson in this. Letting him make the choice to follow the rule or not. To co-regulate as best he could with me until he felt ready. And to tell me what he was feeling and be proud of himself for wanting to try again.

The rest of the time we were there he walked around saying, “I’m so frustrated,” with incredibly animated arm motions and enunciations of the words. I kept reassuring him that it was okay to feel that way and I was sorry that he didn’t like the rule I’d set. That it was my job to keep him safe and I appreciated him communicating his frustrations with me.

I’m sure other people in the park overhearing me thought I was crazy, but my parents followed my lead. They trusted my parenting style even if it might be different from what their instincts were telling them to do.

I’ve been thinking a lot and reflecting on how I’ve gotten really in a groove with writing for an audience. In writing these to you each week, I’ve been feeling really great about my consistent writing and some of the pieces I’ve chosen to include that I can look back on and see what the focus was for me at that time. I’ve also noticed that I kind of forgot how to write for myself. I am a pro at buying new journals and carrying them around with me. Really great at writing a new article or essay to post within a twenty minute time frame. But I’ve forgotten how to write just for me. I’ve neglected the processing center of my brain that is unfiltered and worried only about releasing rather than relatability. I’ve stopped giving myself space to write my thoughts and feelings, which is the whole purpose of why I write. Connecting with others is important, and high on my why I’m a writer list, but it’s even more about connecting to myself.

So this week, I prioritized journaling more than I had been. I snuck in a little bit of journal time while my kid was playing independently or watching his morning cartoons (PBS only please). When something big or small happened, I wrote it in my journal. I let myself reflect on some of my recent life changes without worrying about if someone else was going to read it. Because they weren’t, it was just for me. It was lovely, and something I forgot I need. And believe it or not, I don’t think it negatively impacted my writing life, but rather gave me more ideas for things I want to explore further in an essay or with friends.

So thank you, for reading my weekly letters, they are truly pushing me to find balance in my writing life.

What I listened to:

This, only this, forever. Current favorites are Season 2 Weight Loss, American Girls, and Carla’s Song. My kid’s really vibing with Ready, Steady, Go!, Pop, and Dance No More - so we’re just listening to the whole album on repeat over and over for the rest of our lives.

What I watched:

Again, surprise to no one:

What I felt proud of:

I had a few moments this week where I felt really proud of myself and the life I’ve created. Others where I was really down and anxious. Life is a rollercoaster, folks. I have a draft saved that I’ll share soon (so check back) on teaching my parents how I parent and I’ve been really proud of the ways we’re all showing up and working together to figure out new ways to do things based on what I think is best for my kid.

I also had a particularly difficult conversation with my doctor and took steps to take better care of my needs in a way I have been afraid to do before. On the way out of the appointment my kid looked at me and said, “you okay mama?” sensing my tension. I told him I was okay, that I was feeling overwhelmed but I was okay and he replied, “you’re brave and strong, mama.” Which made me cry but in a good way. It really reiterated for me that all of the conscious choices I make as a parent; to speak kindly and encouragingly, to narrate my feelings and his, to share as much as I can in an age appropriate way, it’s all working. So I’m proud of who I am as a mother. How I take care of me and him. How we take care of each other.

What I’m celebrating

Similarly to pride, I’m leaning into celebrating myself this week. I did a handful of hard things and survived. I also got selected to have my writing in two publications!

Out on March 20, a somewhat fictional, very vulnerable, piece I wrote on parallel grief experiences for a woman who’s lost her husband to death and a woman who’s lost her husband to divorce, titled Parallel, will be published as bonus content for Get Griefy’s Women’s Issue. I’ll share it when it’s available but I’m very excited and very nervous to have my work out there in a new way!

I’ve also written a piece that is going to be published in the Spring/Summer edition of Mourning Papers by the wonderful team! You can order a copy of their magazine directly from their website - currently just their first volume is available but volume two with my work will be up sometime soon!

What I’m looking forward to:

I have some really exciting things coming up for work and I’m still very much in awe every time I get to talk about how much I love what I do. For a long time, work felt like something I’d never get right, always trying to find something that fit. So I don’t take it lightly when I get to share that I’m actually the most excited about what I have coming up.

In two weeks, I start new cohorts of the two classes I teach solo through LaMort.

Storytelling Grief: a class focused on writing and community. It’s a six week course where we have lots of room for prompted writing, building community within the class space, and practice with tending to grief and working on legacy work for yourself or others. It always feels like it should be six more weeks when we get to the end and I love it so much. It’s on zoom, Mondays from 12-2pm eastern time and I can’t wait to jump back in with new writers!!

Energy Work for Dying: This is going to be my second time teaching this one and I’ve revamped it a bit to have more face to face time, so yay! This is a three month class, meeting eight times (two weeks on and one week off) where I get to teach people how to do energy work with dying and grieving folks, and students get level one and two attuned to holy fire reiki. I’m really so thrilled for this and am pushing it up an hour this time around so it’ll be meeting on zoom on Thursdays from 6-8pm eastern time! It’s so magical and one of my favorite things to teach.

The Mystical Arts of Deathwork Retreat: Okay I’m like bursting out of my skin excited for this and have been dying to talk about it!! I’ll be teaching energy work for this, but there will be three other classes offered in a four day retreat to Cape May, New Jersey - my favorite haunted spooky town just an hour south of me. We’re holding the retreat in a lovingly haunted victorian mansion that we stayed in this passed December, and this time we’ll be there in May, so beach time will be included. We have super limited spots for this and I’m really excited to see who decides to join us!!

I also have some fun local events at my favorite place to be:

Magic Makers at Embodied Physical Therapy: Tomorrow (March 13) at 6:30pm - An informal magical circle for witches and fairies alike who want to make some magic together before we move into Spring.

Grieving Reiki at Embodied Physical Therapy: Friday, March 27 at 6:30pm - A community space focused on holding our grief, honoring it in our own ways, and sharing it with and feeling held, together.

Reflections

Overall, it’s been a kind of difficult time for me. I’ve been going through a lot of changes and doing my best to navigate all of it. This week, I found myself working hard to lean into the things that felt good - Harry Styles, time with my family, manifesting what feels needed,and things I’m looking forward to. I know this will continue to be a phase of life where things ebb and flow and I’m doing my best to go with it and embrace what I can. I’m grateful you’re here with me even if you’re not physically here with me.

Talk soon, xo

I had a day this week where I was driving down a long empty road, on my way to get a new tattoo from my friend who I hadn’t seen in a while, music playing loud because I was in the car alone, and the sun shining on my face like it was finally the end of this horrid winter. I thought to myself, “this is what it feels like to come back to life.” The simple joy and contentment of a warmer day paired with an act of self care can feel life changing.

I did some witchy things this week, talked to my dead people with my friend jenna, went to a moon ritual hosted by my friend katie, spent time with my sister, took a trip to the bookstore, and finally made it back into my office for work instead of being stuck at home for snow and other reasons. It felt really good to connect with myself and others through the things that make me feel like me.

What I listened to:

Pretty sure I shared this song before, but my kid has been asking to listen to “mary table” on repeat almost every day. It came on randomly one day when we were driving in the car and my kid somehow knew the words. The song is in italian - with just one chorus in english - it’s fun and silly and a song that not only reminds me of my Grandpa but makes it feel like he’s in the car singing with us. My kid dances to it, sings along, and encourages me to sing. I sing it the way my grandpa did, not knowing any of the words in italian but knowing the way they sound and singing with an unearned confidence as if I knew exactly what I was saying. When the song plays through and ends with a little “Hey!” my kid urges, “one more time.”

What I created:

What I read:

I’ve been making my way through an early copy of The House of Now and Then by Edward Underhill - and also slowly reading The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller for the first time and basically underlining and highlighting and making notes for every other line.

What I watched:

(multiple times)

What I learned and noticed:

Inspired by an essay written by my friend, Annaliese, I wrote this piece on being an unlikable mother that I shared earlier today.

Talk soon, xo

I don’t think this is the norm, at least it’s not in my experience. I was raised in an italian american, new jersey/new york family where we greet each other with a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and follow the same niceties on our way out. We start saying goodbye and getting ready to leave at least a half hour before we actually want to leave somewhere.

It’s foreign to a lot of people in my life to let my kid say, “no thank you,” to a hug or a kiss. To encourage folks coming into contact with him, to ask permission before they kiss him and to wait for him to say yes before moving forward. I remind my family often that they have to ask his permission before touching him, picking him up, kissing him, or any other form of physical contact they want to offer. Their intentions are good, loving mostly, but my kid has been taught since before he could speak that he is able and encouraged to express his consent or lack thereof and have it respected by adults around him.

My dad didn’t like this at first. He thought as a grandparent he should be entitled to hugs and kisses from his grandson as a sign of respect and a show of love. He’s learned though, and is now one of the loudest advocates for my son to say no to strangers and family alike when asked for affection that he might not want to give.

With Family

A few months ago, early in the summer, my sister was sworn in as a lawyer and we went out to a nice dinner to celebrate with our family. Most of which my kid sees weekly at least, but some that he’s only been around a handful of times. An extended family member was persistent with asking him for kisses and he was still warming up to the space and the people so he didn’t speak up. My dad stepped in and said, “He doesn’t want to right now but maybe later he’ll give you a high five,” and turned to look at my kid and said, “but it’s okay either way, right buddy?” To which my son replied, “yeah, i don’t want it.” After dinner, we were on our way home and my smart little human recounted the interaction with me saying, “kiss, i don’t want it” and “right grapa” and we talked through it for the whole car ride home. I spoke out loud that I saw that person asking him for a kiss and that Grandpa said he didn’t have to, that it was okay if he didn’t want to and that we can always say no when we don’t want to do something. That it was okay if the other person’s feelings were hurt that he didn’t want to kiss them because it’s not his responsibility to put someone else’s feelings above his own. That we respect when other people say no too because we always want to get someone’s consent before touching their body. He was little, less than two years old, but I was intentional with my use of the word consent because he’s going to grow up to be a teenage boy and then eventually a man and he should know that word from now.

When he was even littler and couldn’t speak yet, I was always on guard and very much the unlikable mother who didn’t let people hold my baby. At family gatherings or events with friends I would keep him in my baby wearer front pack so people didn’t ask to hold him. When he got old enough to signal with sign language or hand motions if he wanted to go to someone or be picked up, I was really intense with letting people know they couldn’t take him if he didn’t reach for them. At his first birthday party, I told everyone that they could only hold him if he explicitly asked them to, reminding people who don’t see him often that he knows how to communicate what he wants. I know people love him, people want to hold him because he’s cute and sweet and it’s a way to connect. But I am my baby’s first advocate and I would rather keep us both comfortable than appease others. No one at any age should be expected to accept being touched or held by people they’re not in the mood to be touched or held by. I know this is extreme, and I’ve gotten used to being perceived as the over-dramatic mother trope by people who just want to hold my kid.

With Strangers

When we interact with strangers, I make sure to model for him the way I say no. If someone comes over and wants to talk to him I never call him shy, I say, “He’s weary of people he doesn’t know so if you give him some space he might warm up and want to say hi.” Or if someone at the grocery store touches his hand, or god forbid tries to kiss his hand (you’d be surprised how often this almost happened or did actually happen when he was a baby) I make sure to say, “Oop, he understands consent so please ask his permission before you touch him. He’ll let you know if he’s okay with it and if he’s not please respect that he doesn’t want to be touched.”

I’m not an inherently unfriendly person, I love people and I love to make new friends and talk to strangers in passing. But I know my kid doesn’t, and I know in our experience, people don’t always understand that. There are some situations where he will wave to anyone walking by, say hi or tell them about what he’s doing or what he has in his hands. Some spaces where he’s more comfortable, the bookstore for example, where he runs away from me knowing I’ll follow and talks to anyone who stops to acknowledge him. In these situations, I sometimes get flustered, trying to make sure he knows trust and discernment and understands that not all people are our friends. Even if we want them to be.

Being Unlikable

I go overboard as a mother, and I know that. I know I am more firm with my wording and the things I allow when it comes to family and strangers. I want to model for him that everyone has a right to say no and show how that is respected. He needs to know that’s the case so that he grows up to respect other people’s boundaries as well.

It’s not always popular to have this approach. I make my family conscious of things they’ve always done, boundaries they’ve not considered, and feelings they’ve expressed with manipulative intentions to get kids to show them affection. It might sometimes keep them from getting that reluctant hug as a show of what they think is respect and it’s definitely not what most of them want to have to navigate. But I keep doing it because my kid deserves a parent who stands up for him and who models what it’s like to stand up for others.

I do it because no one should be raised with the expectation to dismiss their discomfort to prevent someone else’s. My friend Annaliese beautifully put this into words: “it’s okay for others to feel disappointment. it’s important that you let others feel disappointment. they’re also learning boundaries and how to behave in the world.” Read the rest of her post on this:

mother curious

people keep trying to touch my kid

i know that sounds intense, but i don’t know how else to say it. and i also kind of want it to sound as creepy as it is. the concept of touching a kid should weird you out, but it happens to mine all the time…

Read more

6 months ago · 26 likes · 11 comments · Annaliese Godderz

I know it’s radical of me to teach my kid that respect and affection are earned, not freely given because someone asks or because of who they are to you. I know it makes me less easy-going than some would like me to be. I know it puts me in a position to be the bad guy and to be less likable in certain situations. And I will keep doing it and speaking up and setting boundaries and reinforcing them over and over again because my kid needs that. How can we expect people to learn if we’re not willing to make them uncomfortable? How can we expect our kids to feel safe if we’re not willing to put ourselves between them and something that doesn’t feel good? Even if it does feel good, even if they do want to give that hug or kiss or be held or say hello to a stranger, shouldn’t they have the chance to know they get to make that choice themselves? Doesn’t it feel more meaningful to have a genuine interaction or show of affection from a child who wants to give it rather than one who feels forced?

So, dear reader, whatever your relationship is to the children in your life, parent, friend, aunt, sibling, grandparent, stranger, consider this when you ask for a hug or lean in to touch a kid without their consent. No age is too young to know what they want or don’t want - ask first. Chances are their parent will speak up for them if they’re not able to speak up for themselves. But don’t make us have to be unlikable. Consent matters at all ages and stages.

Privilege of a slow to warm kid

It’s also something to be said that I do have a kid who is naturally slow to warm and discerning of people he interacts with. Sometimes even with people he’s known since birth, he makes them work at it for a bit before he warms up and is ready to play. With new people, he needs time to assess and I don’t have to be as worried about him running off with a stranger because he’s just naturally not going to trust someone until he gets a sense for who they are. He’s also incredibly intuitive and in tune with me and my feelings and I think sometimes plays off of how I respond to a new person before deciding what he’d like to do next.

I think what it really comes down to is knowing the difference and teaching the importance of trust and discernment paired with consent and boundaries. Some of us might feel like we have an easier time expressing boundaries with people who we love and trust already because we know they’ll still like us even if they get annoyed for a few minutes. Others of us might feel like it’s easier to be firmer with strangers who we may never see again. Some of us might have that deeply ingrained people pleaser want to overrule the rest and struggle all around. It’s all okay, and it’s all important and the more we practice the easier it gets.

Narrating Life

I’ve been talking out loud to my kid since he was days old. Telling him what I do and how I feel and why I do and feel what I do and feel. Now that he’s older he responds and asks me more questions. He mirrors back to me when I’m feeling frustrated the things I do to soothe him when he’s feeling frustrated. He understands what feels good for him and what doesn’t because I’ve been and continue to name for him what feels good for me and doesn’t. I show him with both body and verbal language what my experiences are and ask him about his. I’ll name, “it looks like you might be feeling frustrated - I notice you’re breathing heavier and your body looks tight, are you feeling frustrated?” I’ll also say, “Mommy is feeling frustrated right now because Franny (our dog) isn’t listening and I don’t want to keep repeating what I’m saying - my body feels tight and my breathing is heavy, do you see how mommy is feeling frustrated?”

I also explicitly state my boundaries to him often. I’ll say, “mommy doesn’t want her body touched right now,” or “mommy is happy to give you a hug now,” so that he knows I’m consenting or not. I got a lot of practice with this with breastfeeding and still do. I’ll tell him when my body needs a break, or when his comforting tug on my necklaces feels overstimulating. I over-explain everything, knowing he’ll absorb a lot of it and I let him know that because my body belongs to me, he has to wait for me to say it’s okay before tugging my shirt up to get milk.

This naming of things comes from years as a children’s therapist and I often wonder if he’ll hate it when he’s older. Will I then be the unlikable mom in a different way? Will it matter if he’s learned to understand his needs and emotions and can express them freely? If he can be kind and firm and respect others’ as well?

Will my desire to be liked, to be cool, to be accepted ever outweigh my passion to teach and protect? I hope not. But maybe I can be and have both.

I’m not perfect, sometimes interactions slip through the cracks and we’ll both miss an opportunity to say something. My uncle often kisses us both on the head when we see him, just his instinct because he does it with everyone. I often say, “ask him first,” and sometimes he does but not always. When I miss something though, I notice my kid has started to say, “no thank you,” when someone leans in and he isn’t in the mood. When someone calls and he isn’t in the mood to talk, he’ll push the phone to the side and say, “no thank you.”

I also think about every time I say something, speak up for one of us or both of us, it makes a difference. He sees the way I can be kind and firm - the way I prioritize his needs - the way I prioritize mine. It rewires his brain, and mine, every time I do something different. I’m teaching us both radical care every time we have conversations like this and every time I speak up even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard.

Some resources:

Sesame Street does a great job at teaching about feelings and how we can express them. It’s one of my favorite shows to let my kid watch and we sing this song often when we’re trying to identify what we’re feeling.

This is one of my favorite books to read with him - it talks about consent so well and is good for younger or older kids

Link here: Yes! No! A First Conversation About Consent

More alike than we’ve ever been before - but still jarringly opposite in most ways. More than just sisters though, we’re friends.

Not long after we started to feel like we were compatible as friends, truly, for the first time as adults, she moved to Miami. My sister and I started three year degree programs at the same time, mine a doctorate in social work and hers a law degree. We experienced a lot of change over those three years, our grandpa died, my son was born, our parents moved out of our childhood home.

As we graduated and moved into the next phase of life, it finally felt like we were moving in the same direction.

During the time we were in school, she was able to come home during all of our breaks. My son adores her - his “stina” is one of his favorite people. He facetimes her multiple times a week and hugs the phone to his chest when he wants to show her some extra love. Now that school is over and real life has begun again, her visits are less frequent and I see how hard it is on her to only see him in short bursts of time. I see how fast he grows through her eyes - so much changing between visits.

My sister was visiting this week and the first day she was here I was hit with this wave of grief. I dropped my kid off to my parents’ house before going to my art class and he just melted into my sister. He layed in her bed with her for a half hour, just soaking her in and that was basically the way they were the rest of the week. When she was there, he didn’t care about anyone else. When she wasn’t, he wanted to know where she was.

I have such a beautiful and loving village of people who love my kid. My parents see him almost every day, my sister in law and friends show up and play with him whenever he wants, my aunts, grandma, cousins, love him so big and deep. But there’s something different about the relationship between a kid and his mom’s sister. I’ve always felt that love from my mom’s sisters and see how it’s passed down. We were taken care of, and taught how to care, in the same way, and so loving the kid that came from me takes no effort from her. There is something intrinsic in their love that is hard to describe, but I see it every time they’re together.

And I think that’s where the grief hits. Her visits are just that, visits. She fits so seamlessly into our routine when she’s here, with flexibility so we have more time with her, and it feels jarring when she’s gone. I long for a life of collective care where she is here and part of our structure regularly. Where she can pop over for an hour or two in between work and pilates, or eat a quick dinner with us before going out, or brush her teeth alongside my kid for our bedtime routine.

I long for a life where all of the people I love live close to me.

When my sister is here, I long for her to always be. And then I think about all of the other long distance loves I wish were closer, more integrated into my day to day life.

I think about my friends who I talk to every day - the ones I send voice notes to, the ones I write with, the ones I met in adulthood but know more about my daily life than others.

I think about my best friend/cousin who lives in LA, who I only talk to once or twice every couple of months but think about every day.

I think about the friends I’ve drifted away from who were once part of my routine but aren’t anymore.

I think about all of the other moms of toddlers I’ve bonded with who I’d love to do life alongside if we still existed in a society that encouraged a village to really be like a village.

But most often, I think of my sister. And I feel for all of the people who don’t have sisters to love their kids the way mine loves mine.