Every year, I debate whether or not to continue to post these blogs about grief. I know there is not anything helpful about reminding people of past pain...but every year, I start to feel nostalgic during this early summer period as I remember exactly what I was going through 8 years ago on Memorial weekend. It's almost like the feeling of grief pops up in the Facebook memories of my heart - and in order to deal with my own, I have to do this.
Eight years ago tonight I remember wondering if life would ever be the same again. I guess I write because I like for people to feel connected. Grief is was of the most lonely processes I have ever been through, because even with the same death, your grief can be so different. I want people in difficult times to understand how far you truly can come in a span of years. In a way, I guess I want to write this to 5/26/2012 Emily - look! Look how much progress you've made! I love to keep journals and record milestones, and I've gone back to read blogs occasionally and been able to find a theme each year - there's always a different way I've been healed; and this year, the theme is a confident joy.
This past year I reached a new milestone in taking my first job. Each milestone in life since Brenna died has brought a bittersweet feeling, because accomplishments are good, but it brings you a small bit of guilt because you made it and she didn't. This is the first time since she died that I have not been in school. That's a long time. I [finally] finished grad school in August of 2019, and shortly after, accepted what turned out to be an incredible job at a site where I did a fieldwork assignment. God sure knew what he was doing when he took me to No Stone, because I work with some incredible people. They have helped me to heal another part of my heart by doing something I love and inspiring me each day. It's not common to land your dream job right out of school, but I'm sure it's common to experience a 'honeymoon phase' of working a job you love right after spending so much time in school. Regardless, I've found that I absolutely love going to work every day.
I've thought quite a bit recently about an interview I was a part of the day after Brenna died. Several (hundred) people gathered at my house that weekend to create memory books, and several representatives from news stations were included in that. When my friend Tyler was interviewed, he told the woman, through tears, how he felt heartbroken because he and Brenna had planned to become teachers and teach in classrooms right next to one another. He sobbed as he talked about how he felt compelled to 'finish' the job for her, be the best he could be, because she would not have the opportunity to teach, like she always wanted. I feel this same calling, even on days that are frustrating at work, or days when I feel so unbelievably NOT competent to do my job (which is sometimes probably the truth). I am always reminded by the picture above my desk about the girl who inspires me to do everything I do with as much joy as I can muster simply because I can.
On that same beach trip when I was 13, before I had mastered being stronger than the waves, one of the waves came up behind me and took me by complete surprise, knocking me off of my feet and into the sand as the wave washed over me. When I stood up, something on my swimsuit felt funny, and I looked down to find (what seemed like) hundreds of tiny fish in my swimsuit top and bottoms. I am thankful that iPhones did not exist, and that there is no photographic evidence of this horrifying encounter that had me screaming bloody murder on a packed beach and scarred me for life (joking. sort of.), and kept me out of the ocean for an entire day.
One of our favorite activities during our beach trips has been taking the boards out farther into the ocean and riding the larger waves before they break. We often spend hours out there. The first time you go, it can be a little scary - the water is deep enough that you can't touch, once in awhile the wave will be stronger than you imagine, and you definitely can't see in the water (yay, sharks). And.. if you get salt water in your eyes while you're trying to ride a wave, you're basically toast.
Sometimes dealing with grief and trauma comes like a day on the beach with no cares, just cruising along, and sometimes it knocks you over like a wave coming you didn't see, and it even leaves you with these little sardine looking things in your bikini. Each year, I find that the day to day activities seem to be more like the easy day, the waves I feel confident to face, boarding with my cousins, watching the sand crabs, and finding starfish on the ocean floor. But every once in awhile a wave takes me by surprise and makes me feel all the 'feelings' once again.
In the last nine months it has been absolutely incredible to be a therapist for the very first time. I was extremely lucky to be placed with a supervisor has been a blessing to me both personally and professionally. Something no one ever talks about with grief is the way that it strips you of your self confidence. I couldn't even see a white daisy or a whiffle ball or a K-State rowing shirt without getting sad - why would I be able to go to grad school? Pass a rotation? Make it through a session that goes to crap 5 minutes in? Tackle a tough diagnosis or a difficult parent? From day one, Petra had an unspoken belief in me that made me feel like she never doubted my skills that suddenly gave way to some confidence in myself, too - something I haven't felt in a long, long time. She sat on the floor right next to me when I struggled and accepted the things that were difficult for me with so much grace. When I'm in a tough situation with a kiddo, I find myself looking to her for guidance, but usually only to find the look in her eyes to say 'you know this. I know you do.' and she encourages me to be outside of my comfort zone and each time, I feel just a tiny bit better about the wave that stands in front of me.
Truthfully, I wish that I could write about what I REALLY see at work, but that violates confidentiality. I wish I could go into detail about the milestones I've seen kids reach, the discharge paperwork I've gotten to sign when a child meets their goals, or the belly laughs that I've heard. I wish I could write about singing to a child on the swing as a break in therapy and watching their eyes roam around the room, or the times I can calm a truly upset or dysregulated child down, because I remember feeling that way myself for quite some time. I wish I could truly describe what it feels like to be a part of the thing a parent thought their child would never do. I wish I could describe the tears I've shed after a tough session when all the adrenaline and anxiety comes rushing back like I haven't felt in years, and how overwhelming it is to feel that about your job. I wish I could write down the funny things my kids say or do, and the way that they make me so thankful for my job every day. I wish I could put into words how hard I laughed the day Gilbert and I were demonstrating a bowling game for the kids and I ran into the door frame, the way Kelsi and I share a look of 'what on EARTH do we do now?' when a kid is losing it, or Alex's casual challenge to indian leg wrestle in the middle of the hallway the other day when we both had a break. This is joy.
Joy has come in my job, in my friendships, the trips I've taken, and the adventure it's been since graduation to venture out on my own for the first time. I'm sure that a joy like this would have come at 25 regardless, but it makes me so appreciative to even have the opportunity to have had struggle that makes me appreciate where I am now. Those many days of trying to make it through the day, struggling with such heavy anxiety, and always wondering 'why her?' have seemed to be replaced with a peace I can't explain. I didn't think I'd ever get here. It has been a joy to not feel weighed down by the constant fear that something like this could happen again.
What I CAN write about regarding work, however, is the therapists I work with at work who make me feel competent, and valued as a part of their team every day even though I've barely been out of school long enough to bring much knowledge. I can write about the way that they've taught me how to handle a difficult situation and rely on team members when things get tough, and the way they've given me a more realistic perspective about the day to day versus what I went through - losing Brenna at 17 made me expect the worst from every phone call, every time someone was late, or every time something went even remotely wrong. They have made me feel more in control in the life I've been slowly learning to manage again, understanding that the unexpected might happen, but not being so worried about it when it does - and more than that, they've given me a great team to turn to when the wave does win. Although I know your heart never truly heals after a loss like that, they have filled in some holes again as I have weaved through the difficult journey of a 'normal life' and not feeling guilty about doing something I love just because my friend didn't get to.
Initially, grief and trauma have this way of making you feel like each and every wave knocks you into the sand, in a rough water, and leaves you with fish in your swimsuit. You've barely gotten over the first wave when the next one comes crashing through. You have salt water in your eyes. You can't catch your breath. And you just. keep. falling. What you don't realize is that with every wave, you learn how to stand up again - you use muscles you didn't know you had to figure it out, and each time you go into the water, you make it just a little bit farther before a big, scary wave comes again. But before you know it, being knocked down is part of the day and it's something that you don't worry about anymore.
Naturally, as I write this, Tangled happens to be on TV - one of Brenna's favorite movies. I used to cry every time I saw it, and I don't anymore. I think about how she was the sky lantern in many of our lives - but we've healed enough to do it for others. I feel so stinking lucky by so many things in the last 8 years, and what has been fun about keeping this blog has been realizing that the blessings are much more plentiful than the tough days - the scales become more unevenly tipped as each year goes on. This year, I've found the blessing in a chaotic, loud, pediatric clinic full of people who have quickly felt like family. What a joy it has been to learn confidence with each coming wave and to know that even if it overtakes me, I'll surely come back up again.
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