#42: Made to heal.
#42: Made to heal.
Practicing what I preach when faced with an empty nest.
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Our mission as parents is to make ourselves obsolete.
Like a carefully planned rocket launch, we gather the pieces, obsess over the best way to put them together, build a beautiful spaceship, follow the launch sequence. Then 3, 2, 1, liftoff!
We are left on the ground, watching the rocket soar into the crystal blue sky. But we go a step farther. We hand over the reins of Mission Control to our little rockets too. We set free the thing that we love and cherish most in the world.
It’s a different sort of loss than the ones we’re often talking about here at The Luminist. It’s like we carefully remove our hearts from their protected pocket of ribs, upon which they grow legs and blow us kisses and promise to call every Sunday as they walk away. It’s a loss that we choose, but not for lack of love.
The exact opposite.
For the sake of those little rocket ship hearts that we love more than life itself…
In other words, I helped Kendall move into her Tulane freshman dorm room last week.
We pushed a baby-elephant-sized forest green moving cart filled to the brim across campus in 105 degree heat with several hundred other bedraggled families. We divided and conquered set-up duties (I the unpacker, she the assembler). We channeled Mike and his mad skills at making everything look just so. (Cleverly hide the ugly extension cords leading to the fridge! Make sure the duvet cover isn’t inside out!)
We had a few scratchy moments. New Orleans is not known for its straightforward street signage. We almost lost the car in a couple potholes. We disagreed over the ‘measure twice’ philosophy versus ‘wing it!’ ethos. But we did it. We Deagles have achieved our second and final liftoff.
I’m staying in NOLA a few days to make sure all is well before heading home.
I’m writing you from that liminal space — on my own but just a few blocks from my newly excavated heart — tenderly fingering the edges of the deja-vu-inducing hole in my chest.
I’ve been taking myself on walks so I don’t stew or harass Kendall too much; letting myself move through emotions as I move through the streets — proud, sad, excited, curious, wary. This is a new way of meeting loss and a change for me. Just actually meeting it. Saying, Hello, I was expecting you. Let’s go on a walk and get to know each other.
Maybe it’s because I’m in New Orleans, a city bursting with life and heat and history in every square millimeter. Trees covered in Spanish moss span the streets like an outstretched arm, intent on shaking hands with their neighbor. Trios of senior citizens stroll the paths of Audubon Park at 6am, greeting me with a southern hello. Every street is a sweltering melting pot of Creole, French, Spanish, and Caribbean architecture, food, and music. And potholes the size of a Fiat.
Maybe it’s because voodoo magic is seeping out of the sidewalk cracks under my feet, making me believe anything is possible. Maybe it’s because I spend every week writing about this and want to practice what I preach.
Whatever the reason, the hollowness is feeling much less gaping, much less gnawing, much less ‘it’s going to eat me alive!’ It feels… like love.
It was made from love, it holds the shape of love, it can and will be filled with love.
This is not what I was expecting.
At the end of move-in day, the University hosts a session for parents.
The notional purpose is to put our minds at ease. The school will take good care of our kids. The real purpose is to get us the hell away from our sons and daughters and moving along.
The Provost, with kind eyes and years of experience swindling parents, knew exactly what to say to help us lean in when we wanted to turn around, “Being at the beginning of something is so rare. Revel in it.”
His words landed in the hole where my heart should be and immediately started to root. Not just for Kendall, but for me too.
Intellectually, we know that endings are generally replaced by beginnings. One door closes… another opens… blah blah blah. We also understand from physics class way back when that an empty void will suck something into it if given the chance. But it’s another thing entirely to actually feel it happening in the moment.
To walk around the dark side of the cycle of life and realize there is no difference between what we think of as an “end” versus a “beginning”. There’s just how we chose to sit with the unfolding moment.
We are made to heal.
Not to gloss over, paper over, avoid or ignore. To let the heartache become heartopen become heartfull. Even when it feels like our heart has been nuked into smithereens, it’s still there, beating its mortal promise: You live; you love. You live; you love.
Obviously sending my daughter to college is different in a million and one ways from losing my husband, but still it’s change, goodbye, heartache. However, it’s like my system now knows what to do:
Embrace the wide range of emotions that are swirling around my head and heart and gut.
Have patience that it will take time to fill this hole, and that there will be parts that are never filled.
Accept that the process won’t be smooth. I’ll run into bumps, dead-ends, even New Orleans potholes.
Let myself crumble in fear that I will not be able to make it across this pothole the size of the Mississippi… until I’m ready to gin up the courage and take the leap.
Remember that loss is a part of any well-lived life.
“It works!! It actually works!!” I want to exclaim to seniors in the park (who likely already know.)
Living with loss is definitely not unicorns and rainbows or smooth sailing or “only up from here” — any of those nonsense things we are taught to expect if we just work hard enough or smash down our feelings. But it’s beautiful. And I’m finally open enough — to my emotions, to the impermanence of life, to the mystery woven through the chaos — that I can let myself be in awe of that beauty even when it’s making me cry at the same time.
By the time this is published, I’ll be back at home all alone. I’ll probably have to read this post again to remind myself that emptiness is just another way of saying “full of potential.”
But that’s okay. Even forgetting feels like part of the cycle. It keeps me honest, soft, and connected to the life-giving lessons of loss.
In breaking and in healing,
If you resonated with this post and want more, check out these:
Post #2: Why I wouldn’t trade away the grief. While I would give anything to have my late husband back, my life is more vibrant, more meaningful, more miraculous thanks to the lessons of grief and loss.
Post #8: Then and now. How I’ve learned to let transformation unfold… rather than it being an uphill struggle.
Post #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.
Post #14: Things will be great again. Giving each other permission to believe in the future while honoring the pain of the present.
Post #39: From lifequake to lemonade. The way we tell our story matters.
Congratulations to you and Kendall!
Wishing you and Kendall all the best on your new adventures! It's going to be wondrous. xo