It goes like this: I’ll be writing some email about some human system we made up to soothe our own egos and decided status as the superior species on earth—automated workflows, KPIs, growth hacking—and then, BOOM. Something tangible happens, and I remember I’m inhabiting flesh that bleeds. Sometimes, it’s in the form of someone unabashedly cutting through the echoing jargon.
You’ve been pre-approved to feel again!!!
I get on a call with someone I’m interviewing for an article. It’s a pretty dry one, about some sort of financial lending company and how they got their start. My dad’s been gone for just a few months, and for some reason I can’t quite figure out, these are the sorts of assignments I’ve been getting. Cut-and-dry pieces that I’m struggling to find meaning within. In the midst of grief, what’s the point of anything? It feels like the Universe is toying with me: As you struggle to relocate your purpose, why don’t you write about a dozen banking and loan companies with near-identical missions and taglines?
But maybe it’s all so I can have this conversation.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he starts, sounding harried and distracted. “I’ve been really struggling lately because I’m going through a nasty divorce.” He word-vomits out some more details, leaving me a little stunned. It’s like water being splashed on my face, though; I’m wide awake. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with someone that felt real—especially in the workplace.
Post-grief is a strange place to inhabit. Everyone else’s life has moved on, but yours feels stalled and directionless. It’s like reality layered on top of reality: everyone else’s is as noisy, lively, and bustling as ever, and you can see it happening, but you can’t touch. Meanwhile, the ground you’re standing on is cold and quiet. Life is right there, within reach; you want to be part of it again, but you can’t find the open door. And then, BOOM. This raw confession from a faceless stranger is the opening you’ve been looking for.
For the first time since I lost my dad, someone has my undivided attention.
He transitions seamlessly from his personal divulgence to speaking about the company he founded. Although the subject is dry, his passion for it is palpable, and coupled with him fearlessly showing me his humanness at the start of our call, I’m inspired to write the best piece I’ve written in months of grief fog. I never would have guessed that a financial lender would be the one to help me know how to feel again.
The curse breaker
Maybe my desire to get right to the heart of things comes from her. For as long as I remember, my mom has been questioning herself and her own emotions and experiences. Why does she feel the things she feels? Is there a better way to live? My mom digs to the point where most would get uncomfortable, and then keeps going.
It seems like a lot of parent-child relationships end up mirroring the stiffness of The Workplace. Different jargon, same lack of depth. My mom has made it abundantly clear to me that she doesn’t want this with me, and though we didn’t quite know what “real” should look like, we’ve fumbled around in the dark enough to actually arrive.
They call it cycle-breaking, something about generational curses—you’ve heard the terms. But we’ve had difficult conversations about what happens under the surface; we’ve cried and regressed and moved forward as two women who love each other and want to know who the other one is.
I can’t recall a specific moment or exchange, because none of it has been linear, but I know we’re somewhere peaceful when I hug her and there’s no tension in our muscles anymore. We embrace and let go, safe in each other’s arms. Now, I challenge you to make like my mom and question yourself: Do you know what that feels like, to be safe in someone’s arms?
What it means to try
I never thought I’d be on this side of things: The wife of the instructor who’s breaking the bad news. The kid didn’t pass the martial arts test. I watch like it’s happening to me, remembering how it felt to be the kid, the disappointment so large and overwhelming because the rest of life is still so small and undiscovered.
When you’re the kid, you don’t stop to consider the big adult delivering the bad news. But think about it: Could you look a seven-year-old in the cute little face and tell him he didn’t make it to the next level quite yet? The very thought of it makes my skin crawl—but doesn’t someone have to do it?
Because what’s worse? One sad moment followed by the one thing we all wish and hope for at the end of the day—a second chance to try your best—or taking the easy route but planting a false seed of `success in the process? I’m proud to be married to someone who faces the hard conversations every time.
I watch him speak honestly, empathetically, kindly, and I’m in awe. It’s the ultimate form of love: to tell someone the truth, even if it kind of stings, and then promise to stick by their side. “We’ll keep practicing,” he vows, and with those words, it’s no longer a devastation. It’s an opportunity. No one’s getting left behind, and no one’s getting shoved forward before they’re ready, either. He takes the time to see everyone. It makes me feel like I can close my eyes and rest.
These moments remind me of why I write—to connect, to feel, to try and make sense of being human. If this resonates, subscribe to the newsletter, and let my words find you.
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