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An Open Letter, from me to you.

To everyone who is seeing their loved ones post their end of year recap & it’s all smiles and sweets and laughter and you’re watching behind a screen that may or may not have tears on it. 

To everyone who is only a few heartbeats away from cardiac arrest, can’t trick themselves into “seeing the good”, and knows how to make lemonade from lemons but life gave you limes and the Tequila has been gone for a long, long time. 

To you, who doesn’t see the point in a new year because you clawed and scratched your way to the finish line of this one and nothing is different except January is a cold and dreary month with no Christmas lights. 

To you, holding on with the last strength in your fingers as the cruel, winding road of life continues to careen & change & you’re just getting more and more carsick. 

From me, who remembers that bottomless ache, the desperation to leave it all behind, and the sinking realization that nothing this painful lets go that easily. 

From me, who sees you in your hurt and has a few things to say.  

***

If you have known me for any period of time—5 weeks or 5 years—you know that I am a very secretive person. I don’t know how this happened; I didn’t craft myself up this way, and in fact, in my secretiveness I secretly resent my hesitation to let people in. I was asked last night during a share time with some of my girlfriends about my biggest take away from 2022 and nobody was surprised that I didn’t say anything. (It would have been much more bizarre if I had.) But the stone-cold truth was that question froze me in my tracks because sharing would have meant opening up about an 18-month run of sadness and healing that !surprise! nobody knows about.* 

I remember last December with the clarity of an angry relative who won’t let childhood grievances rest. I remember thinking, “wow! I am so thankful that my loved ones had a great year, but if the ground swallowed me up and I never made it to 2022, the smile that death would shape on my cheeks would be the most genuine expression of the year.” By God’s grace I don’t feel this way anymore, and one year’s distance from that feeling has colored it comical. 

But I know that this feeling is far more universal than we are led to believe, and if I felt that way, I wasn’t the first, and certainly wasn’t the last. 

I know that someone today is well acquainted with that crushing grief. They might be struggling to turn the page, or they might already have the book so tightly bound a diamond drill bit couldn’t tear the tape. They might be sending flirtatious texts to the grim reaper. They might be holding the pillow that has caught their tears and secrets, the only true and trustworthy thing.       

Lots of mights, one certainty: a ball dropping actually means nothing as another day opens to glassy eyes and a broken heart. Maybe it’s you, or maybe it someone you know. But to whoever it is, I spent way too many days under the weight of that sadness to not let something lovely be born. Take what you need: 

  1. I like to think of grief as an annoying little sibling that hangs around like a dark shadow. Your mom tells you that you must play with them. They are loud and sticky and they have chocolate around their mouth and you want nothing more than for them to get tired and go away. One day they will, but be sure to sit with them before they do; everyone who has a little sibling knows that you are proud of who they are when they grow up because you knew who they were when they were young. 
  2. I miss who I used to be. Nobody warns you of this side effect of suffering. Maybe the parts of me that didn’t make it weren’t strong enough, or maybe I wasn’t strong enough to carry them through. Maybe I’ve just forgotten how hard it truly was. In any case, know that you can always rebuild what you lose. If you must sacrifice parts of yourself to survive, know that it is good and necessary and you can come back from this no matter how far gone you feel. I miss the girl I was, but somehow, I am closer to being the woman I have always wanted to become. Do not be scared to put things down. Do not be scared to pick them back up. 
  3. Get new bedding. Write everything down. Feel feel feel. One day you won’t remember why these days were so dark. This is a hope and a sadness, especially after you look back on so many days and can’t remember why it was such a victory to just get out of bed. Get your pen and honor these feelings. 
  4. If someone else did this to you, know that you may never get an apology. I didn’t. I envision my current self dragging my old self, kicking and screaming, away from the grave we had to dig. I see the acid tears burning little trails on her face as she realizes the truth of what happened. I tell her, “Leave it, baby.” Leaving was the best thing I could have done. Leaving is the choice you must make and the burden you must bear. Leaving before they realize they shattered you will feel impossible but hear me when I say, an apology will not change anything. Leave it, baby. 
  5. If you’ve lost someone, I found that the hardest part of the grief was dealing with the regret. The words you never said, the things you never did, the phone calls you didn’t answer and the promises that will never find their resolution. After this, it was the wishing. The wishing they would be at your wedding or hold your children. The wishing they were at this year’s Christmas or at your upcoming graduation. The wishing you could hug them one last time. I found the best way to deal with this was to live presently with the people you still have. Make new promises and really keep them. Give hugs and tell people how much you love them. Find new things to wish for. 
  6. The dust of loss will settle on everything you own, and every once in a while something will stir it up and send it back into the air. This will be painful, but don’t see this so much as ashes from a volcano, but instead as a glittering snowfall. Build a snowman and drink hot chocolate. Breathe deep and let it return to the ground. Appreciate how strong you are to be covered in something so icy and cold. Watch it melt and remember that this, too, will pass. 
  7. If you’ve found out your health is failing or you’re coming to terms with the painful reality that your body is not invincible, remember that you and your body are on the same team. It is not you against you. It is you with you. Treat yourself with kindness and fight hard for your teammate. Make all the changes it is recommended you make and remember at the end of the day your body is a home, not a battleground. (I also say this to all of us who lost way too much weight way too quickly. I see you, sister.)
  8. Crying is not selfish. As my mother would say, crying is cleansing. As my sister would say, only cowards don’t cry. As I say to you, our tears are a similar shade of blue. You are strong and beautiful, no matter if your cheeks are mascara streaked. If anyone says otherwise, send them my way. 
  9. Be wary of sentimentality. I think about simple things, like the bottle of garlic salt that my roommates and I have used to season all of our meals for the past 2 years. Will I keep the container in memorial of the thing that nourished me for so many dinners, on so many nights? The thought is sweet, but the answer is no. On the day it runs out it is still only a plastic shaker whose purpose was served. This is not about garlic salt. 
  10. The new year is coming. This is a fact, and if you’ve gotten this far I think it’s safe to assume that this fact is like a hole in the bottom of your stomach. But from someone who was lifeless and broken at the end of 2021, someone who sat begging and pleading with God in the pain, I write with teary eyes that this was one of the best years of my life. I say this to show you that you never know until you go. It is going to be hard. It is going to be so bloody hard and nobody is going to understand. Keep hope like a candle and let it light your path as you trek through the darkness. The sun is going to come through those clouds, I promise. 

The joy that has sat inside my chest the majority of my life has returned, and even though I absolutely would go back and make different choices to avoid some of what I went through, I am even more certain now that God is good, He is for me, and never even once was I alone. To live is to suffer; may you go in grace as you traverse this beaten road and may we all live long enough to see our grief become our friend. 

-Warmly,

han 

*Well, almost nobody. If you read this as one of the people who made sure I came out on the other side of the suffering, I love you. At the end of it all I might have learned more from your love than I learned from the pain. 

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