As a teenager, I began to accept that contradictions can exist simultaneously. This eventually made it easier to accommodate the idea that a lot of things live in the grey. Lately, I have been struggling with this. When it comes to surrender, I am struggling to let go of what I’m losing. At the same time, I want to keep holding on to what remains possible. How do I let some things go and continue to want and hope for others? How do I accept desire when I am also being made acutely aware that I can lose the very things I desire?
A couple of months ago, I moved across the world for an experience I had dreamed up when I was 18. This experience has turned out to be exactly what I imagined and offered me so much more in addition. For one, I’ve written a lot over the years about how much I struggle with change and transitions. Still, I was pleasantly surprised at how internally grounding and safe this uprooting of my life has been. It seemed ‘unlike me’ to be feeling calm and at peace with so much out of my control. When I told my people about my expected reaction, none of them shared my expectations. I have not yet figured out why my prediction was so different from my reality.
Secondly, this experience is repairing my relationship with self trust. This uprooting has been evidence of a couple of things:
- That my dreams are close within reach.
- I can trust my judgment to do what’s best for me.
- I can rely on the things I know to be true about how my life takes shape.
- That my feelings are worth indulging. Even and especially when thinking is easier and faster.
- That being younger never meant I could not know what I wanted.
- I can do new things with more ease.
Finally, this uprooting has unearthed a new layer of my grief. Having my dreams materialise without my loves is complicated. I have had celebrations that were bitter sweet because they couldn’t be here to celebrate (with) me. This feels different for three reasons. First, it involves the thing that is being celebrated and how much I wanted it. Second, my loves and I discussed these desires so extensively they felt shared. Finally, my dreams feel sacred, and the two people I allowed myself to dream with can’t carry them with me anymore. So this experience goes beyond bittersweet. I oscillate between feeling connected to my loves because of what we shared, and feeling emptiness. This emptiness feels like I was abandoned at the point it was all meant to get good. I’m proud of myself for how compassionately I’ve navigated this new territory.
I have also been fascinated by my relationship with the aspects of grief I already know. The ones I have a solid working relationship with. When I went home for the holidays, I felt like everything I have been anticipating losing coalesced. It was almost as if they had been waiting for the moment I’d even momentarily come up for air. The anticipation and preparation haven’t made the losses easier. They still felt violent. It was like everything was gone in an instant. I wanted the unpredictability of grief to make these situations different, easier. Now I find myself heartbroken because of the compounded losses and disillusioned about continuing to dream. It seems naive to want and to hold on to my imagination of what is possible.
This time I don’t even want to be on the other side. I don’t want to have what it takes. Because the dance with hope is strenuous, I’m reflecting on how I exercise my agency. I am doing this to give myself permission to hold on to my desires. To remember when someone I love spoke life to me when I shared my overwhelm. I am accepting the despair and working out the joy. For now, it hurts.
Blooming Butterfly 