Change is processed in steps. I would argue that it is similar to grief that way. Or maybe grief is an integral part of change. We must grieve what was in order to accept and move forward in what is.
We sold my son’s piano today. It wasn’t a big deal…until it was. When that wall of my dining room was opened up and empty, it was further proof that he is no longer home. He has moved on. I keep feeling I should be over this by now, but I am extending grace to myself because I didn’t have the chance to really grieve it last year. Being shot shattered my ability to process much of anything for a long time. Now, the heavy weight of grief in my chest from all I have lost the past few years has returned. It is still there, still wanting to be processed.
I have so many plans for changing the house that I am excited about. But I keep finding myself held back by sadness over what is no longer there. I am caught between how things were and what the house could be. For now, I choose to be kind to myself and allow my heart to feel what it must so that I can move forward in peace and hope rather than shoving down uncomfortable feelings and making myself do something I’m not quite ready to do.
There is a squeezing pressure in the center of the chest when a body feels extreme anxiety. I recognize it now. There were times in the past I thought I was having a heart attack and rushed to the ER. “You’re having an anxiety attack,” they would say. I don’t bother paying the ER bill anymore.
Ever since I was twelve years old, I have had one dream. I wanted to be a writer. Now, I would argue that I have been a writer for decades, but I haven’t been a published author. I signed a contract a couple of months ago to become just that. I am contributing a chapter to a collaborative book with nine other authors that will launch in January. And it’s exciting. It is also terrifying. After a month of writing and refining and changing and shifting, I submitted my first draft today. And now, my chest feels gripped in a vice and my breaths are shallow except when I remember to take deep ones. This is my deepest dream. And the specter of perfectionism (which, ironically, is what the chapter is about) is hovering over my head, reminding me of the words of my college Creative Writing professor who told 17-year-old me that my writing was juvenile. Duh! I was seventeen! What did he expect? But those words landed like blows on a soul already beaten and battered by life. And they have clung to me for 33 years. In that time, I have not once submitted any writing of mine to be critiqued or edited by anyone that I did not trust. I don’t mind getting correction or constructive counsel from someone I know loves me. This is putting my words into the hands of strangers and allowing them the opportunity to tell me I am wasting my time on this dream. The terror is real.
But last October, I was in the hospital unable to speak with a lot of time to process and pray. Dad clearly told me, “Tell your story.” I don’t know, yet, all the details of how He wants me to tell it, but this opportunity was one that I couldn’t pass up. It was practically handed to me. So, I walked through the open door with no clue what was on the other side, only that I am on a journey that I am meant to share with others, and I must go. My best friend told me, “Do it afraid,” so that is what I am doing. Putting my greatest dream into the hands of the only One who can hold it safely.
When children are little, the days seem consumed by cooking, cleaning, playing, snuggling, managing, redirecting attention, and discipline. They are exhausting, and the parent wonders if they will ever end. But, the joy of watching that little person grow and mature, try new things, embrace new hobbies and passions, even test the waters and limits of what they are allowed to do…though it was hard to see in the midst of it, those were great times. I missed some of it because of deep depression. I contributed to some of the angst and pain because I was too harsh in his early years. But Father was so very faithful. He showed me the mistakes I was making and gave me the courage and the determination to do whatever it took to change, even face the pain of my own past. We’ve weathered some pretty hard storms, my boy and me. And we have come out the other side with a relationship that is priceless, and that I would not trade all the money in the world for.
When my son was 16, Father laid on my heart that I needed to start letting him go, needed to start letting him make some of his own important decisions, so he could learn to do so while still under our care and support. As hard as it was as a control-freak who was not yet in recovery, I began to slowly loosen my hold and let him go. To be a Hannah and let her Samuel go (there’s a story behind that reference that is for another time). He made some mistakes, but for the most part, he was incredibly mature. It is hard to not be mature having gone through all he had at such a young age. He has made so many wise decisions. And I have rejoiced as he learned the very hard lessons of being consistent to take his anti-seizure medication without reminders, especially as the day came this year for him to finally be able to drive, three years after his peers. We were overjoyed in his success.
Then came the inevitable. The term “empty nest” is such a trite thing to me. I mean, birds have such a short time, and they push their children out of the nest. I know that what is best for him is to encourage him to take those hard steps, to risk pursuing those big dreams, to strike out on his own adventure, and I am trying to do that consistently while also grieving the fact that those choices are taking him further and further away from me. I know that is a good thing. I know it is important, necessary even. But knowing those things to be true does not make my sadness at his absence any easier. I stayed home with him. I homeschooled him. I have spent the majority of every day of his almost 20 years with him. His absence now leaves a big hole. I am thankful that when Father led me to start giving him some independence when he was 16, He also led me to start pursuing my own interests outside of him. I am so glad He did. I don’t know how I would be now if I hadn’t started recovery, if my entire world still revolved solely around my boy. Thankfully, it doesn’t. I have grown, just as he has. I am embracing new challenges and experiences. I have grown and matured and healed in so many ways. I have discovered new hobbies and passions. I am growing. And this is just another part of that. It is GOOD! And it hurts.
So, I am allowing myself to grieve the changes. I am allowing myself to feel sad as my husband and I eat dinner without our son sitting there at the table with us. I am allowing myself to feel the loss as I am in the house alone working on the new things I am learning to do as he heads off to learn new things. And I am also being intentional about being grateful. Grateful for the time I’ve had with him. Grateful for the man he is becoming who is chasing hard after God’s heart. Grateful that he is still walking this earth, even with a disability because he has a medicine that works well. Grateful that he has been able to overcome SO MUCH and is finding healing at such a young age. Grateful that I get to watch this beautiful young man stretch and grow and become everything I’ve always known he could be. Grateful that I got chosen to be his mom, and I always will be. Grateful that we are both growing, even as we grow in different directions.
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