hard seasons & messy parts
What if we embrace our messy parts?
The other morning I came across a post by Brene Brown called Hard Seasons and Wild Hearts. In it she talks about the effects – both joys and heart-breaking challenges - of caring for her mother, who was diagnosed with dementia, over the past four years. All while trying to keep her family safe, her business afloat, and her employees employed and insured. In the post, Brown admits to, despite all her research on vulnerability, allowing her “strong back, soft front and wild heart” to become guarded, defended and armored.
The post touched on something I have felt for quite a while. That if the "queen of vulnerability" (and I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for both Brown and her extensive body of work) could allow herself in response to the recent collective trauma and the “messy parts” of life to become armored and barricaded – what about the rest of us? And it reminded me that we all have been through a lot these past few years, individually and collectively. And that, according to the beautiful work of Bessel Van der Kolk, Linda Thai, Dan Seigel and others, the time and means it takes for each of us to re-regulate our nervous systems after trauma and grief is unique. And that, like Brown herself, we can get stuck in that guarded and defended state, without knowing it.
So many of us have encountered similar experiences over the past several years. At the very least, our work invaded our homes, our children (and our pets) invaded our work, while the world shut down and our families and friends became potentially lethal threats to our health and our very lives. And at the very most, we lost loved ones and people who were truly special to us. And all of it invaded our media, our thoughts, our minds, our sleep, as well as our hearts.
In my own life, I can absolutely recall the tangible tension among my family during a well-tested, vaccinated and socially distanced holiday celebration - celebration with a lower case “c”. That was the year that I bought my sister a mug for for her Christmas stocking. My sister is director of a co-operative preschool that stayed open and outdoors through the whole pandemic, in southern New Jersey no less. Kudos to those hardy little ones. And to my sister's tenacity for remaining insistent that the benefits for their social and mental development outweighed the assessed risks for their age group. The mug said, “Goal for today – keep the tiny people alive.” I’m sure whoever designed the mug had intended it to be a parent joke. And yet, there it was – the absolute truth of the situation.
That was also the year that I my entire family was very upset and angry with me for wanting I wanted to visit my dad after Christmas. We had decided to celebrate separately to protect him and his wife. In the midst of their worried upset, my family swore they would never forgive me if I “killed Dad.” And yet, I knew I’d never forgive myself for not going to visit him after flying all the way across the country and "something happened."
And yet there it is. This was the reality of our personal experience of a global crisis. And it’s very personal impact on our lives. Trying at every instance to weigh the risks and benefits of our actions and our hearts. However much we want to contain it and put it behind us, it was not a small, inconsequential experience.
And yet, so many of us wanted it to be instantaneously “over” it. Heck, I think a lot of people were “over” sheltering in place and social distancing a long time before the pandemic actually ended. I can recall hearing stories of people renting out hotel rooms in NYC to party like it was 1999 - before the cops came to shut them down. And if you so much as glanced at Facebook during the summer of 2023, you had to notice that it seemed like everyone and their brothers (and neighbors, friends and distant cousins) took a European grand tour like it was 19th century again and they were all just coming of age.
But for many of us, we don’t quite shake off such life impacting or altering experiences like a dog shakes off water. It takes us time to unfold from the tiny spaces into which we have crammed ourselves in our instinct to survive - to breathe more easily, and to truly exhale again. It takes time for us to acclimate to contact, to noise, to crowded spaces, to traveling, and to the commotion and busyness of our daily lives and our culture that we once took for granted. It's not that we are somehow more fragile, but perhaps we are a bit more sensitive because we have been less overstimulated.
And while I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience, I can speak from my own. I know that I’m still unpacking and examining what this experience has been for me and what it means for my life now. Like Brown, I know I have fortitude, toughness, and the ability to grind through tough things. I also know that fortitude, toughness and grit can lead me to compartmentalize, dissociate, and to avoid feeling. And that I too, can get stuck in overdrive long after the crisis is over. And I suspect, given my experience on any given day out in the world or on the road, that I am not alone.
So I invite you, if you or someone you love, know, or encounter is distant, sharp, or guarded, to allow space to for all of us to feel a bit awkward as we each emerge from what this experience has been, and continues to be for each of us. And to do the brave thing - and be kind.