thoughts on things 20 years later

In my adult life, I’ve relocated three times. Once, when I was eighteen, to attend university (Go Cougs!). Then, after college, to France. And now I live in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. I have loved each place I’ve lived.

It is hard for me to explain who I am without the context of these places. Each one has played a unique role in shaping who I am today. Had I not attended WSU, I might not be as avid a college football fan. If not for France, I wouldn’t understand the glory and utter importance of good bread and wine. And without the stability of my life in Virginia, I’m not sure where I would have anchored myself.

These places have defined me.

It’s hard not to feel the same way about my mother. 

Today marks the 20th anniversary of her death. I was twelve years old when she died. I have only one friend left who knew her.

It is almost impossible for me to believe that people could know me without knowing my mother. So much of who I am is because of her. It’s more than the traits I inherited from her; her long legs, easy laugh, or need to rearrange the furniture constantly (this is the real reason I lift weights—so that I can reposition my couch). I am also composed of the grief that her death has left behind.

Before I started analyzing my grief, I thought of it like the light emitted from a flashlight. The light, once turned on, changes how everything else is viewed. But that would only be for a season. And only for a targeted area. Slowly, I assumed the batteries would fade, and the light would dim, and after some time, the light of grief fully extinguished. 

For me, this hasn’t been true. Grief is more like the sun. Always there and shining. Some days, it might be cloudy and covered over. It might be dimmer for a season or two. But even at night, the sun's effect is still evident. It changes everything on earth.

That is what the grief of losing my mother twenty years ago has felt like. There is no part of me, who I am, how I write, how I live, that has been left untouched.

In some instances, I have found this to be beautiful. Sun, after all, is what causes the flowers to grow. I have more compassion and empathy because I’ve tended this grief for most of my life. I have watered and weeded those bits of myself, trying to grow something beautiful. 

There are also parts of my life that feel scorched by grief. Like the deep-seated fear I carry that the worst-case scenario will come true. Because when I was twelve, it did.

But this is true for everything that has shaped us, not only grief. In each of my moves, there have been pieces of the place I’ve loved (like the bread in France) and challenging things (like the summer when every single train I had to take was canceled due to a never-ending strike). What I’ve learned over the last twenty years is that I get to choose which attributes of an experience I water. 

That doesn’t mean the hard things go away. They are still there. But I’ve learned how to deal with them the same way I’ve learned that in order not to get sunburnt, I need at least SPF 50.

And I will take some red on my cheeks if that means the flowers bloom.