Today I need a hug from my grandma.
I woke up thinking about her and I just need to sit at her table, drink a cup of tea, and hear that this too will pass.
Right now, there are so many "this" moments to count. My "this" is not purely political.
It's fatigue.
It's overwhelm.
It's feeling too small to make a difference and too big not to.
It's parenting in a world that made no sense to me a year ago, and even less now.
My "this" is seasonal. As the light wanes in October and November so does my resilience. My ability to be "on". My ability to keep smiling so that all of the feelings that are too big to let out stay tightly confined under the surface.
My "this" is financial. From fueling the car, to groceries, to keeping my children in shoes....What the What? How did milk change price THAT much in one week? How did bread become something to budget for?
My "this" is despair. How can so many bad things happen to little people? When you work in a human service field, you are bombarded with all of the good and bad that humanity has to offer. I feel joy that there are still elements of love and respect and care. I feel horrified and numb that in some places none of these are evident, and horrified that I feel numb.
My "this" is regret. Regret for choices made and unmade. Regret that I thought there would be time for that later, or that close enough was good enough. Regret that I didn't do some things more and some things a lot less.
My "this" is loneliness. In a busy world of people, surrounded daily by other humans, there are times that I feel truly alone. And the depression that hits this time of year tells me this is because I am wrong somehow. Broken. If I were just, a bit better I would need less, or feel less. And it's hard to reach out because when I am in this place, I am hyper-aware of the disorganization of my house, the behavior of my children, the goldfish on the floor of my car, the extra pounds; the trappings that sum up my external life.
My "this" is variable. For that I am grateful. It isn't every day. It isn't all year. But it is real.
I have supports. I am lucky.
But I also have grown to know that I am not alone. My "this" is not your "this". But we all carry a "this" in an invisible satchel. Some days it's small and tucked away, and others it is being dragged along behind us, weighing us down. Some of us are carrying many, many satchels all at once and much of the time. I recognize your tight smile and fatigue.
So I ask of you, reach out and be kind to everyone you meet right now.
Some of us need to hear that "this" will pass.
Some of us need you to treat us with a little more kindness for just a little while.
Some of us will promise to call, but cannot pick up a phone because we are afraid "this" will fall out.
Some of us need you to smile at us, provide a kind port in a wild storm.
Some of us are temporarily stuck in the "this" abyss.
I woke up thinking about her and I just need to sit at her table, drink a cup of tea, and hear that this too will pass.
Right now, there are so many "this" moments to count. My "this" is not purely political.
It's fatigue.
It's overwhelm.
It's feeling too small to make a difference and too big not to.
It's parenting in a world that made no sense to me a year ago, and even less now.
My "this" is seasonal. As the light wanes in October and November so does my resilience. My ability to be "on". My ability to keep smiling so that all of the feelings that are too big to let out stay tightly confined under the surface.
My "this" is financial. From fueling the car, to groceries, to keeping my children in shoes....What the What? How did milk change price THAT much in one week? How did bread become something to budget for?
My "this" is despair. How can so many bad things happen to little people? When you work in a human service field, you are bombarded with all of the good and bad that humanity has to offer. I feel joy that there are still elements of love and respect and care. I feel horrified and numb that in some places none of these are evident, and horrified that I feel numb.
My "this" is regret. Regret for choices made and unmade. Regret that I thought there would be time for that later, or that close enough was good enough. Regret that I didn't do some things more and some things a lot less.
My "this" is loneliness. In a busy world of people, surrounded daily by other humans, there are times that I feel truly alone. And the depression that hits this time of year tells me this is because I am wrong somehow. Broken. If I were just, a bit better I would need less, or feel less. And it's hard to reach out because when I am in this place, I am hyper-aware of the disorganization of my house, the behavior of my children, the goldfish on the floor of my car, the extra pounds; the trappings that sum up my external life.
My "this" is variable. For that I am grateful. It isn't every day. It isn't all year. But it is real.
I have supports. I am lucky.
But I also have grown to know that I am not alone. My "this" is not your "this". But we all carry a "this" in an invisible satchel. Some days it's small and tucked away, and others it is being dragged along behind us, weighing us down. Some of us are carrying many, many satchels all at once and much of the time. I recognize your tight smile and fatigue.
So I ask of you, reach out and be kind to everyone you meet right now.
Some of us need to hear that "this" will pass.
Some of us need you to treat us with a little more kindness for just a little while.
Some of us will promise to call, but cannot pick up a phone because we are afraid "this" will fall out.
Some of us need you to smile at us, provide a kind port in a wild storm.
Some of us are temporarily stuck in the "this" abyss.
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