As the layers of life accumulate

Let it be.

Some days, some weeks, some months, are heavier than others. These are the times when bad things have happened, when our lives are forever changed. Our minds may not always note the date, but our bodies typically do. 

On these days, we feel out of sorts — we feel sad, anxious, or irritable, and we’re not entirely sure why. Our bodies nudge us along. Then we remember.

Photo courtesy Getty Images

On November 12, 2020, I was discharged from the hospital where I’d spent the last three days being treated for postpartum psychosis.

On November 12, 2013, my dad was discharged from the hospital where he’d spent the last two days as his body shut down from cancer.

I was given permission to go home. My dad was sent into hospice care.

This is the first year I’ve made that connection — that my dad and I, years apart, were both in the hospital on the same day. In 2020, I got to return home to my family, giving us a chance to begin our new life together. In 2013, my dad got to have his family by his bedside, giving us a chance to say goodbye. Neither of us were ourselves on those days. I was muddled from the lingering effects of the psychosis and medication. My dad was highly medicated to mitigate the immense pain he was in.

This feels like a significant connection. I feel an unspoken pressure to write something notable about it. About all the lessons I learned from my dad, and how I apply them to my life as a parent today. About how endings and beginnings are one and the same. About how, as the years go by, the layers of life accumulate — and sometimes, like now, the anniversaries of big, bittersweet events overlap, making certain calendar dates much weightier than others.

But mostly, I’m sad. Just plain sad. I don’t have the perfect, poignant thing to say. All I want to do is be alone and cry.

Allowing ourselves to be sad can be a surprisingly difficult thing to do. At least, it can be challenging to make space for sadness in our happy-at-all-costs society. A quick Google search tells me there are lots of people looking for guidance on how to do this. There are tips on how to get your tears flowing, lists of the saddest movies on Netflix, and entire books devoted to the art of being sad.

Over the years, I’ve written lots of advice on how to get through hard times. But what about when you need to feel the sadness? When you don’t want to push away the difficult memories, but rather sit with them?

If I were to write one of those how-to-be-sad advice posts, I’d tell readers to stop searching for the right song, movie, or memory and instead make space for silence. I’d invite them to go for a walk, without headphones; take a bath, without a book; or lie in their bed, without kids, partners, or anyone else interrupting the moment. I’d encourage them to take a deep breath and, as they exhale, to imagine releasing all the things that are weighing them down. I’d give them a gentle reminder that crying is okay, and that on particularly heavy days, it’s one of the most cathartic things you can do.

I’d tell them to stop trying so hard. To just let things be.

Maybe I should do that.

I miss you, pops.

On November 15, 2013 — ten years ago, tomorrow — my dad died. He was 58 years old.

I miss him so much. I miss his warm hugs, his musky smell, his deep voice and infectious laugh. I miss his dancing and cooking. I miss his senses of humor, mischievousness, and adventure. I miss being in the same room as him.

I wish Billy could have met my dad, and vice versa. I wish my daughter could have met her grandfather; he’d love her more than words could express. I wish I had more time with him. I wish we all did.

On November 15, 2020 — three years ago, tomorrow — my daughter turned one month old. 

I missed a lot during that time. I don’t have any photos from that date; there was no milestone mat or social media post. Instead, I functioned as best as I could. I tried to get sleep, to reconnect with my baby, to reconcile the shame I felt about what I’d been through. 

I wish things had gone differently. I wish my first month of motherhood wasn’t tainted by such a scary and disorienting experience. I wish I had a simple story ready to share with my daughter about that time, in case she ever asks.

Sometimes all the wishing makes me wonder what I should be doing now. Shouldn’t I plan something grand in my dad’s honor? Shouldn’t I be pitching articles about the risks of postpartum psychosis? Shouldn’t I be making more of this moment? 

My brain buzzes with all the ideas and shoulds. But my heart doesn’t want to do any of those things. My heart just wants to feel what it feels. It wants to grieve.

And so I do. As I wrote this newsletter post, I paused several times to reread my words and cry. To revisit videos of my dad and photos of my then-newborn. To sit with all the layers of life that have accumulated over the past decade.

The summer before my dad died, one of his greatest wishes came true. His family — his wife, son, daughter, and son-in-law — all joined him at Bonnaroo. 

Bonnaroo is an annual four-day summer music festival held on 700 acres of farmland in Manchester, Tennessee. It’s known for its diverse lineups, camaraderie among campers, and free expression. It was my dad’s happy place. In years past, my brother attended Bonnaroo with our pops; other summers, I joined him. But 2013 was the first year that dad convinced my mom to also join us.

The highlight of Bonnaroo 2013 was seeing Paul McCartney perform. Rolling Stone called McCartney’s set, “the single greatest Bonnaroo headlining performance in the festival’s 12-year history, as it was moment after awesome moment of fever-pitched collective transcendence.” I will never forget the feeling of being in a crowd of 80,000 people, arms stretched around my family, as we all swayed together and belted out “Let It Be.” Everyone sang the song’s chorus — tens of thousands of voices, all united in a reminder to let go of pain and sorrow.

My dad made the trek to Manchester nine times. On what would have been his tenth visit, my mom, brother, and husband returned to spread my dad’s ashes at the festival grounds. We had fun. But mostly we were sad.

Perhaps I don’t have to find the perfect, poignant thing to say about this intertwined moment in my life. McCartney already said it. We all shared in his wisdom on that magical summer night.

So that’s how I’m approaching this heavy, multilayered week. I’ve been taking long walks. Calling my mom to tell her how I’m feeling. Turning down plans with friends and taking deep breaths. Accepting Billy’s offer to spend some time alone. Listening to sad songs. Writing sad words. Letting myself cry. Not judging any of it. Letting it be.

xoxo
KHG

p.s. Of course, happy events accumulate, too! Today is editor Becca’s birthday! Happy happy birthday, beeps. Thank you for being such a great friend — through all the layers of life. I am so very grateful for you.