Fiona C.
Photography by Emma Kraus
If you’re reading this, take a breath with me.
Now take a few more – a deep inhale and a slow exhale. Let your eyes close softly, and breathe until you feel more present with this moment, until your mind slows and body calms, even if it’s just a little. I will do the same.
They didn’t tell us how hard things can feel when we were growing up, or when we were deciding what’s next in life. They didn’t tell us of the depths of grief we may find ourselves in. But then you find yourself on a random Tuesday afternoon when the rest of the world seems to be running like a clock, and you are there, stuck in time – the only thing keeping you grounded is your sorrow, or fear, or pain.
“One day, kid, you’re going to grow up and go to school and fall in love and get a job, and oh yeah, you’re also going to get your heart shattered, your sense of self flipped upside down, and your faith tested.” Conversations don’t tend to go that way. I’d assume that’s because:
1. Words can’t really prepare you for those moments, and while people can certainly help you get through them and even share similar feelings and experiences, it is our own heart that we must feel break, our own chest that grows heavy, and our own tears that cloud our vision.
And 2. We like to focus on the good in life. We need to focus on the good in life. We get focus on the good in life.
I understand why they didn’t tell us how hard things can feel, but it would have been pretty cool of them to remind us that the highs can’t exist without the lows. That not only are both inevitable in life, but one exists only in its proximity to the other. Bonus points if they reminded us of how universally true that is – that you’re not alone in feeling the way you do.
My mom was my best friend. She taught me everything I knew about love and how to live in this world. And then she was gone. Without warning. I ended the night with a hug from her, and I rose to my father screaming. The love of his life had left us – an accidental overdose on the meds she took for her chronic pain.
I never knew true loneliness until she left us. The love that kept me anchored for 21 years was gone in the blink of an eye, and happiness felt like a far-off dream, like the other bank of an impassable river. They love to tell you how exciting and full life will be, so when you find yourself in a moment, be it minutes or months, where joy and love feel absolutely and irretrievably vanished, what then?
It took me 467 days after she passed to feel deep and profound happiness again. A moment that for so long I never thought would come. I will never forget that feeling, sitting on the rocks of a river in August, hugged by a warm evening breeze. I felt full, I felt love, and I felt joy for the first time since she left, and for that I bawled my eyes out. It was also in that moment I realized that despite months of fighting it, my pain would never fully disappear.
But the truth is, I didn’t want it to.
My grief kept me tethered to the love I shared with my mom, and through it, I was able to deepen my understanding of love for her, for others, for myself. The months of depression that followed her passing kept me grounded in the sinusoidal reality of life, and through it I discovered how to find grace and compassion for myself, for others, for the process. The mistakes that I made in trying to figure it all out, and the pain that I caused others, kept me mindful of my own shortcomings, and through them, I learned how to embrace and appreciate the growing pains.
If you are reading this and have ever felt like you’re on the wrong side of the river, you will find a way across. The water will slow and a bridge will emerge from the river’s rocks. It may not happen tomorrow, and you may have to slip a couple times to get there, but you will one day find solid ground.
It has been years since my mom passed, but that doesn’t mean life’s challenges are gone. These days, things feel a bit like a hamster wheel – like if I’m not actively putting one foot in front of the other, my academics, mental health, or relationships will slip out from under me. It can feel daunting and isolating and I’m still unsure how no one ever told us it would be so hard. But the good that those struggles create is invaluable – and while it is sometimes hard to see, it does exist when we give ourselves room to find it.
So one more time, let’s breathe together, and try not to run from the sorrow or anxiety, but, for a moment, lean into it. Feel it in your chest, behind your eyes, your gut. Acknowledge its presence, honor why it’s there, and try to appreciate that. As challenging as this moment may be, be it minutes or months, it will not just give way, but give rise to the good that is coming.
Fiona C., Boston University
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