Today is (would have been? I don't know how the rules work) the 41st birthday of my sister, Kirsten, who died when she was 10.
I was 13. If you're mathing, that means she's been gone for over 30 years, which is a hella long time. Still, on her birthday every year for 31 years, I swear the sky's a little cloudier and I move a little bit slower.
Also, I've been trying to write our 2024 holiday letter and keep having waves of panic find their way to my throat, because this year was really scary and hard. My own 10 y/o, Wolfe Kirsten, came through hell and back. There's been so much growth and healing, but also, it feels like their wellness sits on a precarious branch and a strong wind could knock it off again. I can't look at pictures of them smiling last spring on a family trip knowing that back home, all of their friends had abandoned them. They were tied in knots for months trying to work out if they were allowed to be themself or had to somehow fake a whole different persona in order to be accepted.
We've spent the last year trying to make home the softest, sweetest place for them (and the rest of us) to land. We changed schools, pulled them from school, found a new school. We've had to make tough decisions along the way to try to make life livable and to keep our home the most consistent, safe, and peaceful nest it can be. They still have to go out into the world which is increasingly hostile, but at least here we can be gentle.
I'm glad for the cozy place we've built on days like this for me, too. After 31 years, I'm still the weird little grief girl who misses her sister and feels the burden of what her death left on me and my family. I'm now also the anxious mom who fears for her kid and the granxious (that's a portmanteau of grief and anxious- where my fellow crossword nerds at?) woman who sees her 10 and 13 year-old kids loving on each other knowing that never in a million years could they survive losing each other.
But I had to, and I am retroactively crushed for my 13 y/o self.
Parenting brings so much to light about our own experiences as children. It allows us to relive the joys and surprises of learning how the magical world works and also relive the miseries and blows of learning how the fucking terrible world works.
I don't want my kids to hurt like I did, but it turns out they're hurting in whole new ways. Also, like my hurt as a kid, there's nothing anyone can do to prevent it or take it from them. All I can do is build a fluffy nest where they/we can all curl up and try to figure out a way to person through the pain. I can take my days to grieve when I need them and show up as whole as I can be for them.
One day at a time for all of us.
Fear of not fitting in lessens every day as Wolfe strengthens their knowledge of who they are.
Grief owns less of me each day that passes after the loss.
I think it's an exaggeration to say time heals all wounds. Some don't or can't fully close, some you just learn to live with and build your new self around the wound. Maybe on birthdays and special occasions, you decorate the bandage with glitter. Maybe every day you make an effort to choose hope over doom feels like a rebelious and powerful cry echoing back to the people who are gone and forward to those who are yet to be.
Maybe being a person is just really painful and life is a series of wounds and efforts to heal them and that's just the way it is.
Tonight I'll squeeze my kids extra long and tight until they tell me to knock it off and God mom why are you so weird. To my sister, Kirsten I say, "Boop" and touch her gently on the tip of her heavenly nose.
And that's how we're going to leave this weird little grief girl session today. Thank you for attending.
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