#12: How I became a heart-seeking missile (in a good way).
#12: How I became a heart-seeking missile (in a good way).
The epic power of our hearts to take loss and turn it into even more love.
I spend 10+ hours a week writing about all the ways that Mike’s death changed me (and that doesn’t even count all the thinking, reading, note-scribbling, picture-drawing, and epiphany-experiencing).
Yet I still miss things.
In this case, it wasn’t until I started writing about my heart, having my editor Leona pester me for more info about what was really going on in my heart, then digging even deeper into my heart that I realized… my heart is massive!
As measured by:
My capacity to make meaningful connections with total strangers in minutes if not seconds.
How I continuously welcome love from (and freely offer love to) new sources every day.
The way my heart no longer feels like a zero-sum game, but a self-sustaining fountain of compassion and connection.
Was I always this way? Absolutely, positively, unequivocally not.
In the before times, I neither imagined anyone could operate this way, nor really wanted to. Because honestly, it sounded like a recipe for exhaustion with a splash of neediness.
Oh, how our old ways of being get kicked unceremoniously to the curb after loss…
(Which is a good thing.)
But first, a look at how far I’ve come.
When my husband died, my brain took time to catch up.
I’d see a stunning, share-worthy sunrise, want to talk through a work meeting that had just gone sideways, or have a concern about one of the kid’s teachers.
I’d reach for my phone thinking, “I need to text Mike!”
Then that sinking feeling.
No Mike to text.
Full disclosure about my grieving mind… sometimes I’d send the text anyway.
The longing for the connection that had filled my life for the prior 22 years was too strong to deny. With his now useless phone buried under papers, sticky notes, and pens in the kitchen junk drawer, no one could see the screen light up with my incoming text notification.
The semblance of our previous normalcy briefly soothed me.
If only I could have faked the text back…
The holes in my life where Mike used to fit were innumerable. Like a target ripped apart by a shotgun blast (or 12), there were more ragged edges and empty space than normal life remaining.
But compared to the hole in my heart, the damage to my life was barely a paper cut.
When not numbed by shock, the blackhole in my chest ached constantly, radiating pressure into my throat and across my shoulders. It felt like it had its own gravitational pull… and in the beginning, I was truly worried it would eat me alive if I didn’t fill it.
Luckily, the people around me were way ahead of me.
Slowly letting others fill the empty spaces.
Like first responders surging toward an emergency, those closest to me ran through the flames of my life — and their own loss — to come to my rescue.
My mom saved my bacon a thousand times, helping me with my household logistics — grocery shopping, kid carpooling, doctor’s appointments — and giving me the love only a mom can… Dump trucks of love to soothe the aching pit in my chest.
My friends also jumped into action, desperate to do something to help.
Initially this was a lot of listening, tissue passing, and hand holding. Quickly it became more… deep conversations about loss and my unfolding life. Brainstorming through challenges with the kids. Scenario analysis for work decisions. Many of the things I used to do with Mike.
And to this day, six years later, my brother-in-law is now the receiver of all sunrise pictures and zany photos from my work travels. Posed in helicopter cockpits, sporting astronaut helmets, flying over giant wind turbines in the North Atlantic, and fisheye views inside the soaring NATO headquarters building.
I shoot a daily text to him sharing my adventures, which he has lovingly dubbed “SueViews”.
Even my relationship with my job transformed.
I could no longer rely on Mike for fulfilling conversation at the end of each day. So I sought it out (aka opened myself up to it) with the people I now spent the most time with: my colleagues.
Curiosity is the theme-park-fast-pass to connection, so I put myself in learning mode. While picking up a deeper understanding of people’s skills, capabilities, and crafts, hole-filling connection came along for the ride.
That was a long way of saying that, over time, many of the places that Mike used to occupy were filled. Not all of course… there will always be space where he “should be”.
But it had become clear that me (and my heart) were going to survive.
Which is where things get interesting…
My heart was still broken… but bigger…?
To be fully transparent, the blackhole in my chest hadn’t been filled — can never be filled.
But it no longer felt like it will swallow me either.
Rather, it had opened me, fortified me, and inspired me.
Though, six years later, it still aches regularly, I’m realizing that even the vacuum of loss has its technicolor lining.
It keeps us present, on the razor’s edge of life’s potential and pain, absolutely unwilling to settle for anything less than a life well lived (which I wrote a post about a few weeks ago!)
If we are able to hold a blackhole inside our chests and keep living, it must mean that — like outer space — our hearts are giant, expansive, seemingly never-ending… and capable of endless connection, care, and compassion.
A new way of living and loving.
As I began to return to the world after a long winter of autopilot and isolation, I noticed my subtle desire to connect more with everyone around me — from the postman to the barista, from the ranger checking my pass at the Great Falls Park entrance every Saturday to the new receptionist at work greeting me with her tentative smile.
Every human interaction suddenly became a potential source of heart-filling warmth. I was a heat-seeking missile, my internal radar picking up on and targeting potential areas of connection I had never even considered before.
Yes, the loss of my husband had broken me, seemingly unrepairably for a while… but when I finally had the strength to start putting the pieces of my heart back together, I realized that they no longer fit.
Not solely because of what was missing… but because the shape of what remained had profoundly changed.
I wasn't broken, I was broken open.
I now cried in awe, made fast friends in the back of taxi cabs, gave and received the BEST hugs.
Going back to my old-school beliefs that love and connection can only come from certain sources (partners, family, children, close friends) was preposterous… especially after the hell I’d just crawled through to gain this new perspective.
Whoa. Zooming out for a second…
Am I saying that my heart is bigger, more welcoming, more capable of both giving and receiving love since my husband died?
… I think I am.
Again, some of the pain will never go away. The hole will never be completely filled. It’s not supposed to be.
The point isn’t to go backwards. It is not to forget and get over it and move on. It’s to let the loss of every loved one leave a mark that means something. That makes you, your life, others’ lives better.
Finally, your weekly, actionable, takeaway!
You might be wondering what this all means if you have not suffered unimaginable loss…
It means the exact same thing as it means to anyone else.
It means that the limits we’ve placed on our hearts, our love, our connection, and our compassion are self-imposed.
And all we need to start cracking open that armor is seeing the human in front of us.
Finding ways big and small to acknowledge the individual universes inside each of the people around you… and offer a glimpse of the universe inside of yourself.
This was my accidental doorway into my ginormous heart all those years ago… I couldn’t unsee the humanity in a single set of eyes. I knew the impact that would ripple through countless lives if that human was lost. So I didn’t want to let a single opportunity go to waste. I had to connect with the person behind those eyes.
“Ok Sue, slow down! That sounds amazing, but like a significant time commitment… How do we do that and still live our very busy lives??”
Why, thank you for asking.
That brings us to your weekly challenge:
Make eye contact with, even offer a genuine smile to your barista, server, retail assistant (really anyone in the service industry.)
Ask the name of someone you see weekly, but with whom you’ve never exchanged more than a head-nod or a shy hello.
When someone asks, “How are you?” be honest. Be genuine. Be vulnerable. Be human.
I’m going to do the same, starting with my Great Falls Park ranger.
Become your own heat-seeking — and heart-seeking — missile.
Notice how people respond when you let a little bit of “true you” acknowledge a little bit of “true them.”
Trust that it’ll ripple.
With all my heart,
Sue
Great column! Reinforced some of the things I tend to do when interacting with strangers, though I’m more focused on making their lives a little better in that moment than mine. Maybe it’s both.
I’ve noticed that when I feel really sad or broken, I find it that much easier to recognise and connect with the goodness in those around me - often but not always in people close to me. I get comfort from the sense that so many of us are travelling this life-or-death journey of earnestly seeking out our purpose - and that that purpose is so often rooted in caring, compassion and community. Even if on a bad day it sometimes feels like everyone is just in it for themselves :-)