I want to set it down
All of the heartbreak
All of the hurt
I carry these burdens on my back
Keeping mementos
As justification of who I am
But I do not need justifying
I just am
I do not remember less
Because I have less to hold
It is only with empty hands
That I can reach
That I can climb
That I can accept
That I can receive
I have always worn my heart on my sleeve.
This is not a quality that I have had intrinsic awareness of. In truth, I became most conscious of this quality because of the criticism that often came along with it.
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You’re too much.”
“You need to learn how to care less.”
My awakening to my sensitivity came through the lens of shame. It seemed that my emotional transparency was a burden to those around me, and was perceived as a weakness of my character. So, like any injured animal looking to survive, I did my best to hide it.
I became the calm, cool, collected, “has her shit together” girl. Instead of getting anxious or sad, I got mad – and saw my outward aggression as a sign of success that I had become tough enough to handle the shit that life would throw at me.
When hard things happened, instead of leaning in and moving through, I disengaged and disconnected from myself. After years and years of doing that, I lost myself entirely.
A couple of years ago, I went through a loss that was impossible to disconnect from. It permeated my entire world view. My unwillingness to feel negative emotions left me feeling empty instead. It was as if my emotions knew that my body was an unhospitable environment, and so instead I was left with a bottomless void.
For two years I starved my Soul of nourishment and felt the aching hunger that is the natural consequence of deprivation. Thank the Creator that the Soul is made of energy and follows the Law of Conservation – it cannot be created nor destroyed.
Emotions are the essential nutrients of the Soul. They are required for spiritual growth and establishment. They are both the indicators of dysfunction and the medicine necessary for healing.
If malnourished, the Soul becomes desperate – emoting whatever emotions are not actively suppressed or transcending the conscious effort to suppress them. And my soul did exactly that.
The first emotion that infiltrated my defences was Anger. It was the safest and left me armoured to outside attack. While it often hurt the ones I loved, it hurt myself the most. And I was happy to bear the wounds of self-betrayal if it meant ultimate survival in a cruel world.
The second emotion that I felt was Shame. Largely, as a result of the pain I inflicted on others through my anger. This was not an emotion that I displayed publicly, but instead reflected upon myself as if I was permanently positioned in front of a mirror.
The third emotion that I felt was grief. Due to both the repression of my substantial loss and the loss of myself. This one felt as if it might destroy me, or – at the very least – rip me in two.
And yet, I was still overwhelmed with my fourth emotion – gratitude — that the pain had relieved me from the numbness I had accepted was all life had to offer.
The rest of them (my emotions) came all at once, like a wave rushing through an opened floodgate.
The current was destabilizing, and at times I worried I would be swept away by the undertow and drowned by the heaviness of all of it.
I feel that I’ve learned to ride the waves. But to be honest, I still wear my friends like water wings as reassurance that I will always be able to get a breath of fresh air.
Although my emotionality once brought me shame, now it brings me connection. Where once I saw weakness, I now see wisdom.
I am not naïve for feeling, but instead, I am guided. My emotions are my biggest teachers, and they show me where I am meant to be, and what is not meant for me.
I have danced, I have laughed, I have yelled, and I have cried every emotion through my body to its fullest expression.
I will celebrate with you in the thralls of your ecstasy because I have allowed myself to feel the intoxication of joy – and welcome any opportunity to feel it again.
I will sit with you in the depths of your despair, for I have been there, and I am not as afraid of darkness as I am of the thought of you feeling alone in it.
And while my reflex is still to suppress what I feel, I commit to wearing my heart on my sleeve. So, at the very least – your heart might feel seen, too.
A hiss slithers out from your tongue
And coils around the Truth
The strength of your conviction
Tightens and suffocates
And before Truth has drawn her final breath
Your lies swallow her whole
Leaving behind nothing but an impression in the dirt
And the lingering scent of fear
My life has often felt like a series of plans. Plan, execute. Plan, execute. Plan, execute. For someone who craves security, this has been a cycle I have derived much comfort from. As a child, I was told that I could achieve anything that I worked hard for; that effort equated to success. Having a linear understanding of how growth worked was motivating and allowed me to undertake challenges that otherwise may have been intimidating. For most of my life, I had no reason to question this understanding. My hard work almost always paid off, and when I fell, I typically fell forward.
Planning quickly turned from something that I did, into something that I was. No longer was I the one who liked to plan, but I was christened “the planner” in many of my social circles. I found that with enough planning, I had time in the day to achieve all of what I had set out to do. Failure was viewed as a challenge, one that I had penciled out time in my schedule for. I was able to learn from my mistakes, and trusted that most things influencing my life were well-within my circle of control.
With retrospect, I have gained some clarity over this phase in my life. The reality is this cyclical pattern that I derived so much comfort from was shrouded in privilege. I faced very few barriers or obstacles that I could not overcome. I lived in a bubble manifested through my Whiteness, my financially stable household, and the care and motivation of my parents. If it were not for all of those factors, it is likely that my cycle would have been interrupted much sooner.
After looking back at my old journals from high school, it’s pretty clear that I presented with mental health issues from about the age of 15. However, these issues were always moderate in severity, and I was easily distracted from them by the copious amounts of extracurricular activities that I enrolled in. I derived comfort from my linear understanding of success and derived much of my self-worth from those achievements. It was not until my first year of university that I was forced to come to terms with the uncontrollable.
As I entered my first year of university, my whole world felt like it had been turned upside down. I was attending university in a town that I was eager to leave, staying due to fear of change and feelings of obligation to my friends and family. For the first time in my life, school was hard. I was not effortlessly attaining good marks, not excelling in extra-curriculars, and for the first time, I felt I had no achievements from which to derive my self-worth.
I consumed myself with planning as a coping mechanism. I created study schedule after study schedule, hundreds of decks of flashcards, operated based on the direction of three separate calendars. I planned past the point of execution. I had started using planning as a protective mechanism. I derived feelings of worthiness from creating the plan, more so than I did executing it. Often, I would plan and organize my study efforts well past when I was supposed to begin studying. When the exam finally arrived, I had productively procrastinated myself into a less-than satisfactory mark.
When the sun disappeared for the Winter months, so did any remnant of the Meg I used to be. Instead, I cowered in my room under the covers, fearful of the world that threatened to destroy my sense of self. This was not how it was supposed to be. My mornings consisted of waking up to intrusive thoughts, the occasional panic attack, and choosing to go back to bed to avoid any further discomfort. Sometimes I would make it all the way to the school parking lot, before breaking down and choosing to go home. I was missing classes and consequently getting the worst grades I had ever received. I was hiding from the world and my failed plans, and had convinced myself that the world wanted me to stay there.
When eventually things got to a breaking point, I sought out help through the school counselling services. I began Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) in an attempt to rewire my anxious brain. Yet again, I found a plan that I could derive comfort from—but this time it was a treatment plan. Put in the work, learn the skills, reap the reward of a healthy mind.
My mindset about therapy was somewhat maladaptive, but nonetheless—therapy probably saved my life. I began to learn about the ‘locus of control’, and to differentiate between what was within and outside of my circle of influence. Learning the difference between these two things didn’t make coping with the uncontrollable any easier, but at least I was not directing my energy into an impossible, fruitless task.
Realizing all the parts of my life beyond my control was actually a very stressful experience. The list of things outside of my control continued to grow, as the list of things within it shrunk dramatically. I could no longer pretend that I was immune to outside influence—that I was the omniscient presence in my own life. I was forced to reconcile with my role as the captain of my own ship, navigating the changing tides of which I was powerless to.
With practice, things became easier. In many ways, it was a relief to realize that I wasn’t the cause of all the events or problems in my life. However, causation does not negate responsibility—and I remained responsible for responding to all the things outside of my locus of control.
It has been six years since my first counselling session, and I like to think that I have come a long way. My progress has not been linear, and I still lean in to planning as a form of protection. I still become frustrated when things don’t go to plan, and I still place blame on myself for things outside of my control. Ironically, the less control I have the more I attempt to gain it to feel safe. With every failed attempt at control, life gives me lessons at a louder volume. After a few cycles, I think I might finally be getting the hang of it.
There are so many things that I could never have prepared for—experiencing my first mental health crisis, losing Raegan, meeting the man I thought would be the love of my life, re-writing my relationship with my parents, completely changing my career path. While planning brought me feelings of achievement, the things I didn’t plan for have brought forth depths of feeling that no scheduled activity ever could. It is in those depths that I have learned and loved the most.
In adulthood, a certain amount of planning is necessary to survival. I endeavour to find balance, to plan what I must and to allow and respond to everything else. I want to plan time for quiet exploration, and to boldly commit to radical follow through in the things that feel good.
When I was younger, I felt inclined to choose planning and security over flexibility and freedom. I did this to feel safe, and to feel worthy of love. As I grow older and create a sense of security in myself, I feel the consequence of over-structuring in my lack of self-concept. I crave the fun that flexibility and freedom foster. I want to make time for the unguided exploration that I didn’t make time for in childhood or adolescence. I want to chase the things that feel good and exciting, over the things that bring me status and the semblance of safety.
Over the years, I have learned that planning can only get you so far, and that the best nights out are the ones least planned. I welcome this new chapter in my life that prioritizes living over planning, and being over doing.
Cheers, to Unplanning.
I pour myself into you
Until I fill even the darkest
Corners with my light
You glow
And I’m overwhelmed by your
Radiance so much that I stumble
Backwards and fall to my knees
You shimmer like gold
And I worship at your altar
I sacrifice myself to you
For you
Hoping that if I can just fill your cup,
It might spill over onto me
And I might finally be worthy of
Your love
I give until I am
Nearly empty
Contorting myself in new ways to
Milk the essence of me that remains
I am empty,
Drained
Of love, of worth
Of me
From my position of surrender
I notice that your edges are sharp
It seems that years of obsessing over your reflection
Have turned you into a mirror
And it is not you who sparkles,
But the Woman who worships
At your feet
Grief is a curious thing. It is dynamic, shape-shifting and completely and utterly isolating. No matter how many people surround you–or how many offer support–there is an insistent, acute awareness that you are going through this completely alone. No one will ever fully understand what you are experiencing, because each experience of grief is uniquely complex. When we share a loss with someone else, we grieve in tandem. Most of the time, we mourn in parallel, nearby each other but not quite touching. On occasion, however, our paths cross and our grief become intimately intertwined. These are transient moments, but it is in them that we feel seen. It is in these moments that our shadows merge, and for a moment we are no longer alone in the darkness. It is in these moments that we feel love and an inkling of hope.
Those who do not share in our loss may struggle to support us in the way that we need. What most want to do is fix, to save us from our strife. What they fail to realize is that there is only one, impossible thing that could do this–the return of our lost loved one. When someone is old or sick and dies, there are a number of common platitudes that people turn to when offering support. Most of these inanities seek to minimize the magnitude of the loss in an effort to console.
“Well, at least they lived a full life.”
“Well, at least they’re not suffering anymore.”
These typically do not bring much comfort to begin with, but they become even more irrelevant when the loss is sudden, or involves a young person. Still, it doesn’t seem to stop people from attempting to use them.
In the weeks following Raegan’s death, I was offered comfort by many people, only a few of which understood what I really needed. I was told, “You know, at some point you will have to get over this.” I was encouraged to look for a silver lining by another person, and to become more stoic by another. I was being told over and over again to bury my current pain, and given instructions on how to avoid any future pain. None of that helped. If anything, it made me feel that I did not have permission to feel, that I had no safe place in which to grieve. I felt obligated to hide my grief in order to make others feel more comfortable. I cried (mostly) alone. When people stopped asking how I was doing, I stopped telling them. I pretended, am pretending, to be fine, when in reality it still feels as though the ground may shatter beneath my feet.
There were really only a few exceptions to the above. My best friend, who has experienced a similar loss, simply said, “I get it; it fucking sucks. It doesn’t get better; you just learn how to live with it.” I found his candor refreshing. Everyone had been placating me, telling me that it would be okay. I felt crazy for thinking that it never would be. One of my cousins waited about a week to reach out. When she did, her message to me was short and sweet. Whatever I was feeling, and whenever I was feeling it was okay. She validated my feelings, and consequently gave me permission to grieve in whatever way I needed to. My boyfriend, although pretty much a stranger at the time, encouraged me to feel what I was feeling, ask for help when I needed it, and exercise some self-compassion. He encouraged me to be authentic in my heartbreak with myself and with the people around me.
When Rae died, I didn’t know what I needed. I knew what I wanted, and that was for her to come back. But in the absence of that possibility, I was required to seek out other forms of comfort. Countless people tried to support me, and for that I will always be thankful. I am becoming more and more aware of the fact that I have an army of people standing behind me, fighting for what they think is best for me. I am lucky. I had dozens of people who asked me what I needed, but the truth is that at the time I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I needed, and even if I had, I would not have known how to ask for it.
It has been four and a half months since Rae died, 134 days since I said goodbye to her for the last time. I still don’t know what I need, and if I did, I still wouldn’t know how to ask for it. When Rae passed, a part of me got lost in time, stalled in the exact moment that I heard the terrible news. Yet, life continued to speed past me. My world was at a standstill, but the rest of it seemed to go on without so much as a pause. I had only two metrics of how much time had passed: the changing days on my calendar and the amount of work I had piling up. I felt apathetic toward both.
Time still feels arbitrary, especially in terms of losing Raegan. Sure, I have deadlines and plans to keep, but no amount of time seems to have shallowed the depth of my grief. The people around me seem to think that I have moved on, that I have healed. The truth is, I am still right in the thick of it. I’m beginning to wonder if this feeling will ever go away, or if I will spend the rest of my life missing her. I knew when it happened that I would miss Rae deeply, but I thought that it would be during the big moments, when achieving the milestones that I had always imagined her being a part of. But I miss her just as much in the small moments, when I’m driving alone in my car, while I’m falling asleep, while I’m surrounded by the arms of somebody who cares about me. No matter what I am doing, I find reminders of her everywhere. Like a loose thread, I pick and I pull until I become completely unraveled. Only thirty seconds prior I had been fine, but then find myself completely consumed by grief.
I think that this grief has become a part of me now—both an integral part of who I am, and a powerful force that will guide my future directions. The grief serves to remind me of what I have lost, and how deeply I loved. As much as it plagues me, it encourages me to seek meaning in my life and in my current relationships. Regrets act as cautionary tales, and happy memories as models of experience to strive for. I do not wish to be rid of my grief; I only wish to have her back. In fact, if I must live my life without her, I want the grief in its entirety. I want to be impacted, to be changed forever. I want to love more deeply and more freely, to say yes more often, and to live as much as possible in the present moment.
While grief is an experience unique to each individual, it has the power to bring people together. I’m thankful for the connections that losing Raegan has brought me. I have reconnected with old friends from high school (and their families), grown closer to those who have shown me support, and have developed a bond with Raegan’s mom that I would have never had otherwise. My grief continues to challenge me, and will continue to challenge me in the years to come. I take comfort in the fact that I do not have to face it alone, that I have people in my corner who will catch me when I fall. I will likely carry my grief every day for the rest of my life, but I do not have to carry it alone.
Although right now I am sad, hope still lives within me. The six years that I spent with Raegan were priceless, full of invaluable memories and lessons that I will carry with me forever. I want to find worth in the experience of losing her, and remind myself of the value in remembering her. Raegan will live on in the hearts of those who loved her, and through her memory, will remain immortal.
Over the summer, a good friend of mine recommended that I listen to Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now. I had heard of the book before, but had just never gotten around to listening to it. I was never a huge fan of self-help books. I figured that whatever lessons I needed to learn I would learn on my own. The idea of living vicariously was foreign to me, and looking back, I think having the ability to do that would have saved me a lot of heartbreak.
Being deeply interested in human psychology, Tolle’s book intrigued me. He speaks about the human psyche from the position of “spiritual guru” rather than a psychologist. Despite that, lots of his book focuses on tried and true psychological methods and strategies. Whether he is unaware of these commonalities or simply neglected to acknowledge them, I am not sure.
Tolle became “enlightened”—as he calls it—at his deepest point of despair. The strength and depth of his emotions made them too strong to resist, and therefore he surrendered to “the now”. For someone who hasn’t read the book (or listened to the audiobook), all of this probably sounds like nonsensical gibberish. To be honest, I understand why.
Growing up, my life was constantly in a state of planning and organization. Being raised by goal-oriented parents, my gaze was almost always forward-focused. I was in a state of constant awareness that there were bigger and better things on the horizon, if only I had the motivation to work towards them and the tenacity to stay my course when I was faced with obstacles. Objectively, I did attain a lot of those goals. I was (and still am) a planner. I like to know what is coming, what to expect and how to best prepare. While those qualities have facilitated my success in some ways, they have also greatly contributed to my discomfort in times of uncertainty or instability. This has become increasingly apparent in the last six months.
The pandemic uprooted everyone’s life, not just my own. One day I was sitting in class, talking about a virus that was plaguing communities halfway across the world. The next, that same virus was turning my world upside down and destroying any semblance of normalcy that it once had. It is easy to say, ‘Oh, that could never happen to us.’ Then it does, and we are left feeling shocked and utterly unprepared. Without any real information, we were forced to use our best judgement to move forward. It was (and still is) a guessing game, and as an audience member, there is a lot to be learned here.
While the pandemic completely changed the current reality, it also rid us of the privilege of planning for the future. For the first time that I could remember, nothing was guaranteed. There was an infinite number of possibilities, and therefore an impossible number of contingency plans to imagine. There was no power to be found in planning, only disappointment and wasted energy. I was taught that planning is necessary, but not sufficient for success. With an inability to anticipate, it was not long before I was doubting my ability to flourish in this type of an environment.
The first few days of the lockdown, I felt almost relieved to be taking a break from my typically demanding life. However, it was not long at all before that feeling wore off. Next thing I knew, I was binge watching Netflix, binge eating, and talking to myself just to avoid the inevitable silence that comes with living in isolation. I really felt that I was losing it, trapped alone with my own thoughts and feelings with no escape route. I was stuck in my apartment and in my own head, a self-proclaimed prisoner to both.
I continued on this way for several months. When I moved into a house with roommates in May, the feelings of loneliness subsided but the fear of uncertainty remained. I continued on with my negative habits in a failed effort to self-soothe. I figured that if I could cope long enough to ride out this pandemic, I could make it out on the other side at least somewhat resembling my former self. That was all that I had really hoped for.
With nothing else to do, I spent a lot of time walking. Sometimes I was accompanied on these walks, but most of the time I was my sole company. I had no firm deadlines, no times at which I was required to be home or available. So, I meandered aimlessly through the parks and neighbourhoods of London, just looking to pass the time.
One day, as I was walking my regular route, I looked to my right and saw a gap in the trees. There was a winding path that seemed to lead deep into the trees. I had seen this path several times, but never walked down it. The past few weeks had been rainy, and I had used the mud as an excuse to remain on the paved path. Today though, the path was predominantly dry. My curiosity got the best of me, and I allowed myself to take what I had initially thought would be a brief detour.
I walked down the path in my Birkenstocks, utterly inappropriate footwear for the terrain that I was now covering. I maneuvered around puddles and over fallen branches, losing and then regaining sight of the path every hundred feet or so. After about twenty minutes of walking, the trees opened up and I found myself in a small, intimate glen.
It was the type of landscape that I had wished for as a child, one in which I imagined living out my long-besotted dreams of being a fairy. The large, ancient trees canopied over the valley, filtering the sun into rays of light that speckled the ground. As the wind blew, the rays of light danced along with the moving leaves and the ground seemed to sparkle. There was a small brook to my left; it divided the glen into two sections, trickling leisurely toward a larger body of water that I could not see. Butterflies and bumblebees buzzed from flowering plant to flowering plant, occasionally engaging with each other in a waltz-like dance before continuing on their way. Birds chirped in casual conversation, growing quiet as I approached. The forest was peaceful, but not silent. It was very much alive.
What I felt could best be described as tranquility, simultaneously a participant in and an observer of the natural world. I felt at one with the universe, but was acutely aware of my minuteness in it. I found my insignificance strangely comforting. I had always believed that my decisions carried a great weight, and my mistakes the power to ruin me. But here, in this place, I realized that ultimately these small choices did not matter. I was only a small part of something so much bigger.
When I was sitting in that glen, what was in front of me was all that mattered. I was not worried about yesterday, or tomorrow. I was not preoccupied with work or school or other people. I was present. This was a rare feeling, one that I am sure is rare for many others too. In our fast paced world, we rarely take the time to pause and absorb wherever we are at. We are always planning, anticipating the next thing, working towards the next goal. We seldom let ourselves just be.
I finally understood at this moment what Tolle was talking about. There is no past, no future, only the present. The past and the future are intangible, nothing but memories or imaginations. We cannot change the past, or predict the future. The only thing that truly exists is what Tolle calls “the now”, the present. It is the only time in which we are able to act, to react. By incessantly dwelling on the past or trying to predict the future, we miss out on our opportunity to exert our influence over the things that we can change, and to enjoy the things that are right in front of us.
The pandemic has robbed me of many things, but it has given me time. It has given me the chance to slow down, to pause, to absorb. By having so many things I value taken from me, I have also learned the importance of slowing down, pausing, absorbing. The pandemic has given me a lesson and a rationale all wrapped into one.
I am not sure what the future will hold, but I will hold on to that feeling I had sitting alone in the forest. The feeling of presence, of being. Even when life regains its momentum, I will remember to pause, and to appreciate the present for what it is–a gift. I hope that moving forward, the rest of the world does not lose sight of what we have lost and what we have gained. I hope we learn to absorb all of the important moments, for it is in having them taken away that we realize how truly precious they are. Although there is an undeniable temptation to return to our previous standard of normal, I hope this forced pause has shown people the power of simply being, the power of slowing down. When things return to normal, I hope we take the time throughout our day to stop, to breathe, and to be present–I know I will.
I’ll be honest. Initially, I wanted to write a blog post titled, “F*ck You, 2020”. I got about halfway through it, and then I got stuck. The truth is, I didn’t really have a lot to say that fit the narrative. This year has been the worst of my life to date.
Like many others, I have experienced isolation, loss, and uncertainty. Fortunately, given some time to reflect, I realized that each of these negative experiences had a lesson to offer (or sometimes several). Looking back on this year with a negative lens would mean that it wins, 2020 wins. I’ll be damned if I let that happen. So, as way to say “f*ck you” to the worst year of my life, I’m going to celebrate all that I have gained. (If you don’t want to read the whole post, I suggest skipping to #9.)
Getting to know myself was a scary process, and not one that was willingly endeavoured upon. Before, when there were outside distractions, it was easy to keep my focus outward to prevent from turning inward. However, when you’re your own sole source of company, as I was during the first lockdown, you don’t have much of a choice. Getting to know myself was scary mostly because I was unsure of what I would find. At the time of the first lockdown, I wouldn’t say that I completely loved myself. Sure, I liked myself well enough, and there were parts of me that I loved… but it was a conditional, transient kind of love. (Some would probably argue that is not love at all.) The amount and extent of that love differed daily based on what I had accomplished, how I felt about myself that moment, and how I perceived others to feel about me.
I was right to be nervous; I could have never expected what I found through my introspections. After laying it [me] all out on the table, I was shocked to find that for every flaw I had, there was a complementary objective strength. I also found that most flaws that I had were within my ability to change. I could learn to love my body, I could spend more time on school, I could become better at exercising self-compassion. Of course, there were and always will be things about myself that I would like to change, but simply can’t. Luckily for me, accepting these flaws counted as my first step towards being more self-compassionate.
What I realized after some self-examination, was who I am is made up of both the good and the bad. Buddhism believes in the duality of the universe, that there is a balance between good and evil. I think that humans are the same. There is a balance in all of us. No one is free from flaws, and no one is devoid of strengths. Liberation can be found by accepting this about ourselves and the people around us.
I am not all good or all bad, I simply am.
Once I knew myself, the next step was learning my worth. I will admit, after going through the process of getting to know myself this was especially challenging. I had just laid bare all of my flaws and insecurities, and now I was attempting to reaffirm my worth. Pfft. Crazy.
Previously, I had defined my worth by my productivity. The more I could accomplish, the more worthy that I was. The less that I accomplished, the less worthy that I was. I tied myself to my mistakes, believing that failure made me less deserving. Following days that I did not do “enough” I was overridden by feelings of shame and self-doubt that left me feeling unstable for weeks. I would avoid trying new things for fear of failure and the consequent emotional retributions. When I did fail, it felt as though the world had stopped rotating and everyone had fixated their eyes on me.
What helped me most when thinking about worth was thinking about it in an external context. I have always believed that every person has value, regardless of who they are or what they stand for. Whether they’re a billionaire, a struggling student or a stranger living on the street, on a fundamental level I have always known that everyone is deserving of love and happiness. I am not sure exactly where I learned this philosophy, but it is one that guides much of what I do on a day-to-day basis. It seemed hypocritical to see this intrinsic worth in others, but fail to see it in myself.
Worth is intrinsic; that is something that I believed about strangers, but (ironically) failed to believe about myself. It is not something you have to earn; it is not transactional. Worth is not dependent on who you are, what you look like, or what you accomplish. It simply is. I finally learned to take my core belief about others and apply it to myself. It took some time, but through examining and challenging destructive thought patterns, the way that I saw myself began to change. One morning a few weeks after beginning this transition, I looked at myself in the mirror. I met my own eyes, and as if seeing myself for the first time, I saw staring back at me a young woman deserving of love and affection.
During the first lockdown, one of the biggest challenges that I faced was learning to accept uncertainty. The world was changing at a shocking pace. Things and people that I once viewed as a source of stability were no longer there. Just as a break-up set me off-balance, society was flipped upside down. I struggled to regain my footing on unsteady ground.
In times of stress or uncertainty, I have had a bad habit of trying to control my environment (or the people around me). When I couldn’t control the actual situation, I would exert control over other, unrelated things or situations. It’s a natural evolutionary response that I think many are prone to. With control comes the ability to anticipate, the ability to survive, the privilege of feeling secure. It makes sense. We are hard-wired for survival and exerting control can offer the illusion of safety.
This circumstance was different though; there was nothing to cling to, nothing to control. Everything that I had become accustomed to was different. School, work, my personal life–everything was changing at such a rapid pace and in such an unpredictable way. I no longer had a partner to lean on for support, and my family was across the country. Not only was I facing a world of uncertainty, but it felt like I was facing it alone.
During a chat with my mentor and nutrition coach, she suggested something novel. “What if you were your own source of certainty?”
This really got me thinking. What if I was my own source of certainty? Was that even possible? My thoughts and feelings about this have evolved over the past couple of months, but here is the answer that seems most correct to me (for now).
Yes, you can be your own source of certainty. The key to this is deriving certainty from change, both within and outside of yourself. Life was meant to be dynamic. The world is everchanging and ever-evolving; so are people. Change is happening at such a rapid pace that often we fail to notice the transitions. The only thing that is unwaveringly certain about life is that change will happen. The rest of it, no one can truly anticipate or predict. When it came to deriving certainty from myself, I had to come to the realization that even though who I was changed with every experience, I would always be me.
I have tried my best to write this as a natural succession of events. First I got to know myself, then I believed in my worth, then I learned to act as my own source of certainty. What logically followed was completing actions that affirmed my worth, with the knowledge that I would make it through the consequences.
The aforementioned break-up was not a clean one. It was messy, complicated and tough to navigate from both sides. We tried several times to be friends. We had been through harder transitions, and we didn’t want to miss out on having each other around. However, the holding turned into clinging, with both of us grasping at a mirage of what used to be. All the good things about our relationship disappeared along with the romance. The things that I loved were all gone. There were no more sweet texts, no more stolen moments, all that was left was the indescribable bond and a sense of intimate familiarity.
At a time when everything felt new and uncertain, I held tightly to this sense of familiarity. He knew who I was in my entirety. He had seen my good, my bad and my downright ugly. He knew about my past, and my dreams for the future. He was my person, and it was hard to let that go even though it had already been lost.
Either way, our relationship had progressed to a point at which it was toxic for both of us. We loved each other, but we were unable to navigate the grey area that was our friendship. There were arguments had, unkind words said, and feelings irrevocably hurt. We could not go back, and in moving forward we had hit a brick wall. It was time to say goodbye.
When talking about the situation with my roommate’s boyfriend, Shiv, he posed an interesting question: “Does he make your life better, does he help you be a better version of yourself?”
Immediately I knew that the answer was no. Over several months following that conversation, I began the process of letting go. I started to see new people (from a distance, of course), I removed him from my social media, and finally, I explicitly stated my intentions of a clean break. We exchanged our things and said farewell. He thinks that we will reconnect years into the future, I’m not so sure. I realized that our relationship, while at one time pertinent to my personal growth, was now bringing me down. I think our time has come and gone.
I have learned to trust that people come into your life to serve a purpose or teach you a lesson. Sometimes their presence is transient, and that’s okay. I have since taken the question Shiv asked me and applied it to other situations. Does this friendship serve me? Is this habit conducive to my personal growth? Does this job improve my life?
I am learning to hold on to the people and things that honour my worthiness, and to let go of the ones that don’t. I’m not yet wise enough to consistently know the difference, but I will get there with time. Letting go has been, and will always be, a painful process. But I realize now that this discomfort is akin to growing pains, just psychological instead of physical.
And sometimes, the people you expect to support you fail to do so in the way that you need.
This year I suffered a traumatic loss. I said goodbye to one of the most important people in my life, my little sister Raegan. I have lost people before–family friends, grandparents, coworkers–but losing them felt nothing like this. This loss I felt in my soul, in the deepest core of my being. Raegan was responsible for so much of who I am today, and losing her felt like losing a part of myself.
I was shocked and surprised by others’ reactions to my loss. A universal truth that I discovered: most people have no idea how to deal with grief. People’s first instinct seems to be to fix. Everyone around me wanted me to feel better, to feel whole again. They endeavoured to piece me back together in multitudinous unconstructive ways. Some told me to find the bright side. Some reassured me that everything happened for a reason. Some told me that I needed to “get over it”. One person even suggested that in the future, I become more withdrawn from my emotions to make future losses more tolerable. They literally told me to feel less as a means of self-protection. These things came from people who love me, and whom I love in return.
Most of the people I love failed to show up for me in the way that I needed, but I found my support in other (sometimes unexpected) places. I reconnected with a friend from high school who also attended the funeral arrangements. He quite literally held me together and made a safe space for me to mourn amongst his family. We had not spoken to each other in at least four years, and yet he asked nothing in return for his kindness and compassion.
My friends and coaches, Nicola and Sara, intentionally made space for me to grieve. Although our relationship is primarily based on nutrition and exercise, they stressed the importance of making space for myself and exercising self-compassion. They forgave me for dropping the ball on my pursuits, and consequently, led the way to me forgiving myself for the same things.
My best friend/roommate is no stranger to the dark. She has gone through her own battles, and I have occasionally ventured down into the darkness to sit with her. This time, she ventured into the abyss to sit with me. Sometimes that mere presence is all you need.
My cousin, Ange, waited a few days to reach out. She wanted to respect my space for grieving. When she did text me, she said, “Whatever you’re feeling, whenever you’re feeling it, is okay.” In saying that, she allowed me to exercise self-compassion and to make space for my own healing. She didn’t prescribe my emotions or minimize my loss. She simply gave me permission to feel what I was feeling, and to move through it rather than past it.
Another best friend of mine, who had suffered a similar, but even more profound loss, showed me kindness in the form of honesty. He held me as I cried, and said, “I’m sorry, this fucking sucks. The pain doesn’t go away, you just learn to live with it.” His candidness was a breath of fresh air in a world full of people telling me that it would get better. I knew that it wouldn’t, and having someone stand in solidarity with me and my experience of grief brought me great comfort.
Someone else, a near stranger, gave me even more support than I think they know. We met only a month before Raegan passed, and so they were getting to know me as the worst version of myself. Instead of deciding that it was not their problem, and walking away, they stayed and they made space. They asked the hard questions and listened to the answers. In doing so, they gave me a sense of safety and support that allowed me to explore my grief more fully. I was never made to feel like less of a person or a burden, I was simply cared about. The kindness of this person extended far beyond what I could have ever expected and has been essential to my healing process.
It has been three months since I have experienced this loss, and few people have taken the time to check-in. The five I described above are the ones who typically do, and yet still, are the people I expect it from the least. Most people think that I am fine, want to believe that I am fine, and so go on with their day-to-day without a second thought. These people though, they hit pause, and they devote their valuable time and energy to support me in whatever way I need. Words will never be able to describe the gratitude that I feel towards these individuals.
It was important for me to couple these realizations with outward compassion. Yes, many people failed to show up for me in the way that I needed to. That being said, their failure to show up did not define them as a “bad friend” or a “bad person”. The actions of others are not always reflective of who they are, sometimes just what they are going through. Everyone is dealing with something, and in order to protect their own emotional boundaries some people were unable to be there for me. In contrast, some people were going through their own shit and still managed to show up for me.
All of this is to say, sometimes support comes from unlikely places, and the people you expect to support you may disappoint you. One day down the road, the roles will be reversed. I will be the giver of support, and someone I love (or barely know) will be the one in need. I hope that I can show-up to the same degree that people have shown up for me. The best way for me to display my appreciation is by paying it forward.
As an aside, if someone you know is grieving, there is no “right thing to say”. Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all, and to give of yourself in other ways–your time, your love, your compassion. A loss can’t be fixed, there is no remedy for death. It is a part of life, both for the individual who was lost and the people who mourn them. The best way through grief is acceptance, not only of the death itself, but of the fact that there is nothing that can be repaired. Only time will heal. The most important way that people supported me was by being present, whether physically or emotionally, and making their presence known. There are some days that I don’t have the capacity to talk, but I appreciate the small reminders that there are ears there to listen, and shoulders to lean on when I need them.
Following the loss of Raegan, I have not been doing well. The thing that I have noted most, is that my discomfort makes others extremely uncomfortable. This is not exactly surprising, given the type of person that I strive to be. I am used to being the rock, the dependable one. I am the person that people come to when they need support or someone to listen. I try my best to be a beacon in the storm, a ray of light in the darkness. People are not used to seeing me in a position of need, in a position of vulnerability.
One of my friends was reading The Mask of Masculinity by Lewis Howes. Curious, I downloaded the audiobook and listened to it in the span of about a week. The author describes a number of masks that men wear, all in the name of upholding the construct of toxic masculinity. One of the chapters in the book describes the “invincibility mask”. This persona is one that emulates confidence, stability, and stoicism. A sort of “nothing phases me” kind of attitude. The book was about men and their struggle with navigating masculinity; I didn’t expect to discover anything personally relevant. However, I found myself nodding along, and a distinct feeling of familiarity grew with every page of the chapter that I read. I realized that it wasn’t just men who experienced the compulsion to be unshakeable, it was also me.
This did not exactly come as news to me; it has been an ongoing issue that I sought to address in the early years of my undergraduate education. In high school, I was always “fine”. If I wasn’t, I took an action, goal-oriented approach to solving the problem or distracting myself. I rarely admitted that I wasn’t okay, and if I did it was usually expressed through anger. This was a defense mechanism that I had developed over a decade, better to be angry than to be vulnerable. It wasn’t until I really needed the help that I was forced to realize this façade was destructive more than helpful. With time I eventually dispelled this method of thinking. So, I was surprised when this old habit reared its ugly head.
Since losing Raegan, I have had a hard time asking for help. Most of this is based on a feeling of guilt that accompanies burdening others with my emotions. The reinforcement of this tendency comes when I ask for support and do not receive it. It makes me feel that once again, I am better off depending on myself than leaning on others and falling when they fail to be there.
What I have learned, is that most people will not look for my suffering. As someone who is typically very strong, and historically resilient, people expect me to be okay. Unless I ask for help, no one will know that I need it. The other thing that I have learned is acceptance. Some people will support you in the way that you need, and some won’t. While this experience can be tough and disappointing, it is also enlightening. It is in my darkest moments that I have become attuned to who I can really depend on, who my true friends are.
Overarchingly, the lesson to be learned here is the common cliché, “If you never ask, you’ll never know”. That goes for many things, including actions of support. (Although, I will say that there are some questions that you will simply never want to know the answers to. There’s a wisdom in knowing that.) If I had never asked for support from the people around me, I would have never received as much as I did. It was in being vulnerable that I was bolstered by the strength of others, and in being honest that I received the most love.
In my own time of need, I wanted nothing more than for someone to ask, “How are you doing?” “Are you okay?” So that I could answer with an emphatic, “No, I’m really not.” But only a few people obliged this desire.
As much as asking for help is an important skill to learn, the offering of help is just as important–if not more so. I am not the only one who struggles with seeking assistance, or the only one who fears burdening those around them. I am one of many. In fact, by surrounding myself with like-minded people, I have surrounded myself with people just like this. People do a great job of putting on a brave face, and moving through life without a misstep. That being said, everyone is going through something, and the way one carries themselves is not always indicative of the severity of what they are feeling.
For me, the act of checking-in is momentous. The mere offering of support, even if it is not taken advantage of, is enough to bring comfort. Even if nothing seems overtly wrong, everyone has the potential to be struggling in their own way. By offering support, you create a safe space in which that person can express their challenges and take time to heal. That is a gift more invaluable than any material item.
I don’t have much more to say about this except for stressing the fact that support is a bidirectional thing. It is just as important to offer support as it is to ask for it, and if you can do a combination of both your relationships will be better because of it. The world is a bit of a battlefield; we struggle to overcome our individual demons and larger, societal issues. The least that we can do is check in on our fellow soldiers, when and if we are able.
Confusing, I know. It sounds like an oxymoron. The first part seems almost obvious, nearly self-explanatory. Obviously, it is logical to be cautious before giving someone your heart in its entirety. You want to know them at their worst, at their best. You want to make sure that they are deserving and appreciative of the opportunity to possess it, before they have possession of it.
The second part is the one that requires a bit more explanation. I have come to believe that you can give and show love without giving your heart away. Love, to me, is an infinite resource that should be shared with anyone and everyone, best friend or stranger. I have personally shown love through warm meals, smiles and deep compassion and understanding. I have shown this kind of love to people I am in love with–people who have my heart–as well as strangers I wouldn’t know from Adam.
The giving and sharing of love as an infinite, unconditional resource has the power to make the world a better place. Like worthiness, everyone’s right to love is intrinsic and beyond argument. Every single person is deserving of the type of unconditional love that many of us aspire to receive. That love is available not just through romance, but also in the recognition of our undeniable, unifying bond as human beings.
This year, with such a lack of good fortune in circulation, I tried to show love to everyone in the infinite, unconditional way that only dogs seem to have mastered. I have attempted to give love without expecting love in return. I have learned the difference between loving and being in love, and know now that they are not mutually exclusive. My outward practice of love, I hope, will make the lives of those around me better, and inspire others to take on the same practice. In a world so devoid of stability and hope, love seems to be the only clear way forward.
Losing Raegan was profound, but almost as profound was the amount of kindness and compassion I was shown throughout the funeral arrangements. I attended most of the funeral arrangements by myself and was distantly familiar with only a handful of my fellow attendees. I was nervous to attend for several reasons, one being that I was unsure about how to navigate anticipated cultural boundaries.
Canada has a longstanding history of systemically oppressing and abusing our Indigenous Peoples. When colonization began in North America, Indigenous tribes were exploited, ravaged, and killed by European settlers. This practice of cultural destruction the buying and selling of traditional lands, and the creation of the abysmal residential schooling system. Past wrongdoings have been “recognized” by the Canadian Government, but there has been a complete failure to acknowledge modern issues faced by Indigenous groups as a direct result of previous trauma and continuing systemic inequities. Consequently, there is commonly an existing (and well-substantiated) tension between Indigenous groups and groups of European descent. Southern Alberta, with its large rural and Indigenous populations, is a prime example of this. I was afraid that this cultural tension would make me an unwelcome addition to the funeral arrangements, but I was very wrong.
I stood alone at the One-Spot Cemetery on the Blood Reserve, wind whipping my hair, shaking from both the shock and the cold. I never imagined that I would be there, burying my best friend and little sister, Raegan. My hot tears cooled swiftly as they slid down my cheeks and underneath my mask. I didn’t wipe them away; I wanted to wear my grief in solidarity with my fellow mourners.
Suddenly, I was enveloped in a tight, warm embrace. My knees weakened and all pretenses were abandoned. I leaned in, and my silent tears transitioned into earth-shattering sobs. If it were not for the steadying presence beside me, I would not have been standing upright. After several minutes I regained partial composure and took a step back. My consoler was a stranger. A young girl, deceivingly tall for her age, with emotional intelligence far beyond her years. I thanked her, she gave me a final hug and then went to rejoin her original company.
I think about this young woman often, and occasionally I wonder if she thinks of me too. I wonder if I would have done the same thing for someone else, or if I would be too intimidated by another’s grief to supersede societal boundaries. I wonder if she recognized the substantiality of her action, or if her offering of comfort was entirely instinctual. Either way, what she will likely never realize is the impact her action had on me and those around us. Her demonstration of compassion was humanizing and permissive. In the eyes of others, I was transformed from stranger to friend. Her kindness gave me space and permission to grieve, something I had failed to give myself. Her offering of support opened the door for others, and at once I was surrounded by a community of people who shared my loss. I will never forget this young woman or the way she made me feel less alone in my pain. I can only hope to touch the lives of others in the way that she touched mine.
I am not sure if a cultural barrier ever did exist, or if it was simply something that I feared and anticipated. Either way, my perception of this barrier made the young woman’s actions even more profound. She chose to supersede social and cultural barriers to show me–a complete stranger–love. I want to stress that this was not the first or last time that I experienced this kind of kindness, but it is illustrative of the raw power that love has, should we choose to use it.
I have been told many times, but learned personally this year, that life is a short and winding rollercoaster. Things and people that seem certain are not, the only thing that is certain is the existence of change.
It is a privilege to be able to share love with someone. It means that you have both come together, in your most vulnerable forms, and chosen to accept the other as their whole selves. It is a rare form of connection in a world in which our primary interactions occur between filtered selves, and superficiality is praised. Not only is it a privilege to love someone, but it is a transient experience. Yes, you can commit to loving someone for the rest of your life, but the span of our life is but a blink in the eyes of the universe. Love is rare and it is fleeting, making it all the more important to share it when you feel it.
This year, a changed perspective made life appear even shorter. After losing Raegan, one of the few things that I could take solace in was the knowledge that she knew I loved her. I lost one of the most important people in my life, but she died knowing that she meant that much to me. Even so, I wish that I had told her more. I wish that I had told her, “I love you”, so many times that, in response, all I would get would be an eye roll. I wish that she was able to take my love for granted because she was so confident in its resilience and its constancy. I wish I had told her what an emptiness my life would have, does have, without her. Even after telling her repeatedly how much I cared, and knowing that she knew, I wish I did more to reinforce it.
I am one of the lucky ones. Although I wish I said it more, I know that I said it enough. Some people go through their lives wondering, never knowing if the person they loved knew the extent of what they felt. Between the rarity of shared love, and the transience of life, it has become increasingly important to me to tell, or show, people I love that I love them. I never know when the opportunity to love these people will be taken away, so it is of utmost importance that I take advantage of this opportunity while I can.
The world is wild and crazy place. In the last several months, it hasn’t just felt unpredictable, it has felt out of control. In an effort to protect against this uncertainty, I have tried (and failed) to control where and what I thought I could. Here is a brief summary of the findings of my life experiment.
Things within my control: my reaction
Things outside of my control: everything else
Take these conclusions with a grain of salt. One, they’re my personal experience, and two, my reactions are not inherently within my control, they’re something that I exert control over. Emotions are a physiological response, and it is only in separating myself from my emotions that I am able to view them objectively, and make a decision about how best to move forward.
This year, I have spent so much time wondering and worrying about things that are far beyond my control.
“When will the pandemic end?”
“What will the future look like?”
“What if he doesn’t like me?”
As you can see, my concerns range from some serious big picture stuff to some pretty minute, seemingly inconsequential issues. No matter, though, as each of these questions have in their own way taken a great toll on me emotionally. The reason for that, I guess, must be that there is no one way to answer those questions. There is an inexhaustible amount of variation in potential possibilities, making it impossible to contingency plan for each one. The common feature between all possibilities, however, is that they require a response.
I cannot plan for each possibility, or even plan my response to each possibility, but I can take solace in the fact that I will most definitely have the power and opportunity to respond to begin with. There was no way to plan or anticipate what 2020 has brought me. I could have chosen to respond in a number of ways, but there seems to be two predominant options: be miserable and sulk, or take what comes and learn. This blog post is an illustration of me choosing to embrace the latter. I could choose to be negative, hopeless, and anxious about what 2021 will bring. But instead, I will choose to learn, to hold space for hope, and to trust that whatever comes next, I will be afforded to opportunity to respond in the ways that I deem best.
When Rae passed, I was told by someone that I love to become less sensitive, and less trusting in the world. They claimed that this would protect me from a future full of pain and suffering. While at first I was insulted at the idea, eventually I came round to considering it. After a few days of contemplation, I decided that feeling nothing was the easy way out.
Emotions exist for a reason. They are physiological and of evolutionary origin. If they didn’t serve a purpose, we would have lost the ability to feel a long time ago. I believe that emotions are there to feel in their entirety, the good ones, and the bad ones. However, emotions are separate from my identity. I can use them as a tool to guide my future actions and shape who I would like to become, but they do not define who I am.
Grieving Raegan has been the hardest experience of my life, and it is an ongoing one. I find myself doing things to distract from or avoid the pain altogether. Sometimes, though, even donned with my most rigid armour, I am triggered by small things that I don’t expect. Someone rolls their eyes at me, and I flashback to a memory of her rolling her eyes at something dumb I had said. I drive past a Wendy’s, and I remember that whenever we hung out, that was the only fast food she was ever interested in eating. I take a bite of a fricking Caesar salad and all of a sudden I wind up on my old living room couch, beside her, eating the extravagant birthday meal she requested: Caesar salad and a buttered baked potato. When these memories surface I do my best to allow myself an authentic emotional experience, to submit to the pain that arises and feel it thoroughly. That being said, doing this is scary and hard, and I am inconsistent in my capacity to do this.
I hold on to my feelings of loss and grief, because I realize now that I was not supposed to remain unchanged through this experience. I was supposed to hurt, I was supposed to suffer, I was supposed to “become”. Raegan’s death was a result of something so much bigger than a freak accident. Channeling my feelings of heartbreak and grief will motivate me to create large-scale changes in Raegan’s name, and to pursue a future direction conducive to that goal.
More so than anything else, the depth of my sadness is a reflection of the depth of love that I had, and still have for Raegan. Losing her was crippling, but loving her and being loved by her were two of the best feelings that I have ever known. By honouring my feelings and my grief, I am honouring Raegan’s memory and opening the door to the creation of a continuing legacy in her name.
Raegan’s loss hit me hard, because we loved each other so hard. Any negative emotion that I have felt has come as a result of losing the positive ones. Life is a balance, and with the good there comes the bad. With the extremely high highs, comes the counterbalancing low lows. I cannot selectively filter out my emotions. I either feel them all, or I feel none at all. I refuse to lose love or joy in an effort to prevent rejection or grief. I do not want to be closed off, I want to feel, I want connection, I want substance.
I will not shy away from the good simply because it comes with the bad. I have accepted that you cannot have one without the possibility of the other. Consequently, I will take and feel everything, and use my experiences to grow and become better.
I say this because I waited. I waited for the right time to end my toxic relationship, I waited for the perfect moment to start pursuing self-love, I waited for the ideal time to go visit Raegan, I waited to ask for help. I waited, and then I regretted waiting.
I have used bad timing as an excuse for just about everything. It is a fool-proof excuse, because there never, ever seems to be a “perfect time” for anything. There is no perfect time to move on, to make amends with an old friend or your family, to start a new venture, to go to the bar, to do that assignment you’ve been putting off, to wear that new dress or that new pair of shoes. There is no “perfect” time, only “good enough”.
By staying laser-focused on the perfect, I have overlooked and missed entirely the “good enough”. I have missed out on opportunities to be happy, opportunities to move forward, opportunities to have even a little bit of fun. For me, this fixation on perfection comes from a fear of the inevitable–a fear of change. It is as if I know, subconsciously, that if I wait for the “perfect” moment, I will never have to make the jump or take a step forward. I abet myself into inaction, using timing as a justification. The result? Regret and a whole lot of “what if’s”.
Through my own experiences and my cognitive psychology classes, I have learned the art of satisficing–accepting the “good enough” in lieu of the “perfect”. Statistically, there is almost no difference in success resulting from the “good enough” compared with the “perfect”. There is very little scientific justification for waiting for the “perfect” time. So instead, I have chosen to accept change rather than fear it, and value “good enough” as a near equivalent to “perfect”. Moving forward, I hope that this decision to say yes more often will result in less regrets and “what ifs”.
Thirteen is my lucky number, so it seems only appropriate that the hellhole we call 2020 has brought me thirteen substantial lessons (and an infinite number of smaller ones). While each lesson is distinct, they all work together in succession. 2020 has brought an arsenal of loss, hopelessness, and strife. But for me, it has also brought curiosity, enlightenment, and vast amounts of love. I am grateful for all that this year has taught me, and all of the amazing people that have come into my life as a direct result of these lessons. I mourn the loss of Raegan deeply, but I am inexplicably grateful for the time we did share. While 2020 definitely kicked my ass, I still managed to come out of it as a better version of myself.
That is the best “fuck you” to 2020 that I could ever imagine.
I woke up, sweating, my face wet with tears, acutely aware of the feeling of something pressing down on my chest. My tear-soaked pillow felt cool against the back of my neck, and I realized quickly what the suffocating weight was. I wear a thin, silver chain around my neck now. On it hangs a ring, a chain of intertwined hearts made to resemble infinity symbols. The ring feels indescribably heavy, not because of its mass but because of the weight of the truth that it carries. I should not have this ring. I should have only the ring that I wear on my finger, not the matching set. Having both acts as a reminder of what I have lost, of how I have been left behind.
Just over two months ago, I said goodbye to my best friend and little sister for the last time. Although not technically related, Raegan and I shared a bond that was second-to-none, and indistinguishable from that of biological sisters. We met through the Big Brothers Big Sisters mentorship program just over six years ago, and since then my life has been forever changed.
After losing Raegan, I have found it very hard to “create”. My heart is broken, my soul exhausted. The very sources of my inspiration are pre-occupied with processing a loss that I never anticipated. The ring feels as though it carries a great weight, but truly, I bear this weight upon my shoulders every day. I have come to understand that this weight will never lessen, but that I will just become stronger and more apt at navigating life’s obstacles while carrying it. I know that loving her and losing her has changed my trajectory, and that Raegan will be the muse for the rest of my life’s endeavours. But right now, I struggle to write about her without being overwhelmed by grief. Even the happiest of memories are clouded by the darkness of the reality that we will never make more. One day, I will tell our story, but today is not that day. For now, I would just like to share the words that I spoke at Raegan’s wake. They are far from all-encompassing. But for now, they will have to do:
On Monday, I said “see you later” to the greatest person to walk into my life–my best friend and my little sister, Raegan. Although not biologically related, our bond was proof to me that water can sometimes run as thick as blood, and she will always be family to me.
I met Raegan six years ago through Big Brothers Big Sisters. When we met, Raegan was quiet, shy, and believe it or not—a few inches shorter than me. Over our time together, I was privileged to watch Raegan grow from that quiet, shy girl, into a beautiful, vibrant and strong big sister, daughter, friend and young woman.
While at first, our conversations were tentative and slow, it wasn’t long before she was greeting me with a punch in the arm and a jab asking about whether or not I had finally grown yet—the answer was always no. Our exchanges ranged from “I love you’s” and “I miss you’s”, to eye-rolls coupled with, “You’re right weeeeird”. Little did she know, anything weird I did was just an effort to hear her beautiful laugh. No matter the nature of our exchanges or the time in between them, they were always rooted in love. Raegan welcomed me into her life with open arms, and gave me the chance to know her for who she really was.
I read somewhere that God’s promises shine down as rays of hope, cut through the darkest skies and shower us with warmth. For me and many others, God’s promises shone down through Raegan, Ii’niikiinaasooyaakii—our “Ray of Sunshine”. Her smile could light up the darkest of rooms, and her laugh bring warmth to the coldest of days. Her hope for the future was inextinguishable, and her love was deeper and freer than any other. Everyone who had the chance to know her was made better because of it—myself included.
Meeting Raegan is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I would not be half the woman I am today without her influence. She believed in me, supported me, and called me out when I needed it most. Although, in age, I was technically her big sister—she taught me a level of love, compassion and resilience that most will never have the chance to know. I learned as much, if not more, from Raegan than she learned from me. I became a better person and made better choices simply because I knew that she was watching.
I will miss Raegan every day for the rest of my life. I will miss her in all of the big moments she was meant to witness: as I graduate university, when I walk down the aisle, when I become a mother to her nieces and nephews, as I watch her younger sisters grow into beautiful young women. But I will miss her just as much in the ordinary moments, in my day-to-day. Raegan was and is a part of me, and the knowledge that she is no longer with us will never be far from my mind. Her absence on this Earth will be felt daily, and I can honestly say that I have no idea how to do this without her. But I can take some solace in the knowledge that Raegan’s spirit will walk alongside me every day, and will live on in all of those she loved and all of those who loved her.
I want to thank Raegan’s mom, Shawna, for allowing me be (as she called it), Raegan’s “Little-Big Sister”, and for allowing me to grieve as a member of her family. You raised a beautiful daughter; she truly made the world a better place to be.
Thank you, Rae, for all of the goodness you brought into my life over the last six years. The chance to know and love you, and the chance to be known and loved by you were, and will continue to be, the greatest blessings I have ever received.
This year, for Christmas, I have decided to do something a little bit different. Instead of buying online or from big brand names, I am choosing to buy Canadian–specifically, to buy Indigenous. When it comes to being fully informed on Indigenous issues, the history of residential schools and the effects of intergenerational trauma, I have a long way to go. Buying Indigenous is just one small step in the right direction, but the journey is lifelong and requires ongoing self-reflection and self-improvement. I am committed to that journey. I am only at the beginning.
I have done some of my own research on Canadian, Indigenous-owned businesses. This is the list that I have so far, but I will be adding to it on an ongoing basis. If you want to join me in buying Indigenous this Christmas, we can help to support a community that is overdue for recognition and support.
*All image rights belong to their respective owners/creators.*
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