A new beginning
I’ve felt for awhile now that what I’ve been through in my life has been meant to be shared. I’m a big believer in shared human experience and that we all really have more in common than we realize. Life knocks us on our asses sometimes and it’s hard to catch our breath. But, there is this shift happening in pockets of the world where people are sharing. They’re sharing their losses and their fears, their failures and their struggles.
My mom is a big inspiration behind my words, behind who I am. She was never a believer in perfection. “Even strangers aren’t perfect,” she’d say. What a thought. Nobody is perfect. Nobody. There, do you feel that release as you repeat those words out loud? So, my thought was to create a space where we can be imperfect together, share those fears and messy transitions and maybe feel a little less alone. And, of course, make some room for joy.
Welcome to Better Makes Human.
Better makes human is the end of a phrase my mom would say growing up: “Practice makes good, good makes better, better makes human.” There is no “perfect.” It’s just try, try, try again, get better, do better and you’re doing okay. We’re all learning here, after all.
I plan to share more about myself in the next few posts, but here is a little about how I got here.
My life has been full of a lot of joy, some privilege, and a lot of loss. After a battle with Scleroderma, a rare, auto-immune disease, my dad died when I was 16. I learned a lot about my anxiety, hospitals, and big medical words I could barely pronounce. It was the start of my interest in going pre-med (which didn’t last long, thanks to my non-science-minded brain). It was the first experience of watching someone you love slowly slip away from themselves, with health taking their identity. I didn’t understand at 16 how much this loss would impact me. And, it was one of many in a short period of time. His was the second eulogy I delivered that year, following my grandpa dying six months prior. That same year, in between my grandpa and dad, my mom also lost her brother. The following year another grandma and aunt. 2005 will forever be referred to in my family as “the year everyone died.” While all of this loss was happening around me, in a bit of a blur, my mom was also managing the early stages of Multiple Sclerosis.
My high school and college years were a bit different than my peers, to say the least. I know now that I was in a heavy depression fog for most of that time. I wanted so badly for others to be able to see the pain I was in—to be able to relate to it, but I didn’t know how. How’s that for a party topic?
I thought losing my dad in my teen years was it for my grief journey. I was really convinced that would be it. Turns out life has had other plans. When I met my now-spouse, I learned about a different kind of loss—the kind where you lose someone to addiction. I am grateful to say that my spouse is now healthy and in recovery. I learned through nearly losing them that I can’t fix things for other people, I can’t carry their weight, I can only support myself in order to support others. I’m still grappling with this, I admit, but am I further than I once was.
Not the same, but like with my spouse, AJ, I couldn’t battle Multiple Sclerosis for my mom. I couldn’t battle her depression for her. All I could do was wrap her in my arms and love her. Hold her hand. Wash her hair. Tell her jokes. Sing with her. Those are the ways I could show up. Small ways, but big memories.
In all of this I’ve come to realize that strength can look many different ways. Strength can look like falling the fuck apart. It can look like not getting out of bed because you need to rest. It can look like ugly crying. It can look like falling to your knees with your head in your hands. Resilence doesn’t have to mean we keep going, depsite what life throws us. It can be how the hard shit breaks us, softens us, and leads us to find our people. Those deep, authentic connections that get us through this hard stuff. THAT is what strength looks like to me. THAT is what resilency looks like to me. And, if you’ve found me here, I’m going to guess you’re already stronger (and softer) than you think.
