Explorers' Club: An Update

It’s been awhile since I’ve written about our Explorers' Club, so let me recap. It’s not an official club or anything — it’s some variation of my family members who enjoy going out into the world and trying to discover something wonderful about it. 

I say some variation of family members because while it started as a family endeavor, sometimes it’s just Claire and I. Or just the girls and I. Or sometimes it’s all five of us. It all depends on availability and willingness (more on this later). 

The club first started when the girls were about three or four, and we found a little-known trail that crossed a creek and under a bridge and through a tunnel of trees. (Turns out it’s a relatively well-known trail — maybe the most well-known trail in town — but seven years ago, it was new to us.) This adventure sparked a desire to find more special places and see things we never knew existed in our little city.  

So, between all of us, we’ve explored nearly all of the public trails and parks. And while these adventures used to be highly anticipated, my 9-year-old (going on 13), has recently been resisting. “Ugh, are we just going to like walk again??” She said the word “walk” like it’s the most boring and dull thing she could imagine. 

It was this same attitude that she brought with her on a recent trip to a new trail. She complained in the car, after she got out of the car and for the entire first 10 minutes of the adventure. Then, we hit the area of the trail that runs along water. There were rocks to be thrown, a couple of small waterfalls, dead fish lying about, froglets hopping — and her bad mood suddenly disappeared. 

For the next 45 minutes, I had my explorers' club back. It. Was. Awesome. I know it won’t always end like that — some of the adventures will be “like just a walk.” But my hope is that when they’re grown, they’ll discover the seeds I planted when they were young. There is joy and excitement around you all the time — sometimes where you least expect it. If you’re looking for it and being grateful for the wonders of the world (both big and small), you’ll always find happiness. 

Crushin' the Patriarchy

A week or so ago, Claire comes home from school and starts telling me about her day. After a few minutes of the regular stuff, she casually says “Oh, and I crushed the patriarchy today.” 

Ya know, as one does. 

A little backstory: I have a passionate desire for equality. I purposefully shopped in the boys section when the girls were little because they didn’t have any blue onesies in the girls section. When the McDonalds employee asked, “do you want a boy toy or a girl toy?” I respond with “my daughters would love the toy car.” And my greatest and most real contribution to the cause of gender equality: I have been educating my girls on just how pervasive the inequality is (Henry will get a similar education + added bonus of how boys can help further the cause). 

They learned at a young age that marketers determined that pink was a girl color — that there is no such thing as a girl color or a boy color. They learned that girls come in all varieties — ones that like lace and ones that like mud and shockingly — ones that like both lace and mud. (And while we’re at it … ones that like neither lace nor mud.) I detest the boxes that society tries to put us in and wanted the girls to know that they are complex and beautiful humans and can be whomever they want to be. 

I still think it’s important to be clued in to the ways society shapes how we think — like the ridiculous idea that strong, tough boys can’t like butterflies or My Little Pony. But these past few months, I’ve upped the education. I’ve talked about the more serious and harmful ways that a male-dominated world impacts us, specifically regarding politics and economics. When I told the girls about the gender pay-gap, they were floored at the injustice. 

And to really hammer home the idea and make it memorable, I often shout “smash the patriarchy” after one of our discussions. I complete it by punching the air with my fist. 

So, that’s the backstory. Back to the present. 

Apparently, a couple of boys at school told Claire that girls can’t dribble basketballs. Then, they mockingly dribbled the ball "like a girl" and bobbled it all around. Claire was quick to let them know that girls absolutely can dribble the ball and showed them her sweet moves. 

She told me this story and said “so, I crushed the patriarchy. And I told a few other girls about the patriarchy and they are going to crush it, too.” 

Sky’s the limit, girls. Don’t let anyone hold you back. 

I Got This

When the girls were babies, I was the stereotypical first-time mom: overly protective, overly cautious, overly helpful. I had two miscarriages before getting pregnant with them and then they were born a month early and spent 10 days in the NICU. Their fragility combined with my nurturing nature was a perfect formula for me doing everything “overly.” I tied their shoes and zipped their coats for too many years. I was too quick to jump in and help them solve their challenge. It all came from the best possible place, but I didn’t give them enough opportunities to succeed or fail on their own. Of course, I didn’t know any of that in the moment. 

But after I watched them grow into these capable, strong, resilient children, I realized they don’t need me to do so much. In fact, what they really needed was for me to do less. Being the first kid(s) comes with with plenty of perks, but the price of that are parents who are learning how to parent for the first time. It’s not better or worse than middle kids or last kids — just like the other sibling positions, it has both benefits and disadvantages. And I can say confidently that nine years later, they are totally fine! Yes, they were babied more and for longer than Henry will be, but they know how to tie their shoes and zip their jackets. They desire their independence and often tell me “Mom, I don’t need help.” 

Which brings us here. 

The second time around, taking what I learned from my sweet girls, I realized that Henry needs plenty of opportunities to fail or succeed on his own. I still baby him plenty, because it’s just who I am — I’ll baby them for as long as I can because someday they’ll ask me to leave and “please shut the door behind you.” But I also give him space. And whether it’s that space or his own determined personality (or a combination of both), he has this confidence and determination that is inspiring. When I default to doing something for him, he shoos my hand away and says “Mom, I got this.” I take a step back, give him my patience as he struggles to get that sock over his heel. I resist the urge to lean back down and instead, I let him take it off and start over three or four times before he finally gets it and says, “See, Mom? I told you.” 

And while my problems are no longer getting that sock over my heel, I have found myself repeating his mantra when I’m in a difficult spot. Whether I’m nervous about doing something unfamiliar or having a rough emotional day, I whisper, “I got this” and I picture that pride he feels when he finally succeeds. 

You Go, Girl

This past weekend the family got together to watch Grace live her best dream — performing on stage in front of hundreds of her adoring fans. Okay, so only eight of them were technically there for her, but that's not relevant. 

She’s been dancing since she was three and it is still, by far, her favorite activity. Every spring, the dance studio puts on a recital to showcase everything they have learned since the beginning of school and it’s always such a delight to see these tiny dancers pouring their hearts out for the hundreds of proud family members. 

This year, though, things were a bit different for Grace. She was her normal level of excited beforehand, but when I saw her after the show, she could not contain her pride. It was spilling out of her, especially from the smile that stretched from ear to ear. She ran — RAN — to me when she saw me and gave me a huge hug. A rarity these days. Usually, she maintains this “too cool for school” attitude with shoulder shrugs, sarcastic retorts and definitely no PDA with mom. But in the minutes after the finale, she was completely uninhibited and so proud of her hard work. 

I was, too.

When I watched her at dress rehearsal — my first time getting to see the dance — the tears just rolled down my face. You could tell something had changed this year. She was more focused, more serious, more confident than previous years. 

And watching that combination of focus + hard work = pride is one of those milestones that I didn’t know was waiting for me. The first steps, first words, first lost tooth, first day of kindergarten — I expected all of those. But I wasn’t prepared for how emotional it would be to watch my girl overcome her challenges with courage and persistence and know that she determined her own destiny.

Chapter 37

Today I turned 37 years old. 

It was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. 

Given the loss of my Dad a year ago and the deep, deep sorrow that followed, I would never have predicted #37 to be one of the best. But that deep sorrow is what made me so damn grateful to be here today. 

I have learned so much this year. (Okay, that’s an understatement.) My understanding of this life was completely cracked open, ripped inside out and flipped upside down. I spent most of #36 feeling completely lost. I learned that to feel deep sorrow means you felt deep love. I learned that nothing in life matters except kindness. I discovered myself in ways I didn’t even know needed to be discovered. I found what brings me peace. I found what brings me joy. I found what heals the wounds in my soul. 

My journey took me down a dark, scary path, but it also brought me into the light. I imagine it like walking in a forest and getting so deep in that the sunlight doesn’t penetrate. You keep walking, but you aren’t even sure you’re on the trail anymore. The bushes and branches are scraping at your face and arms. The dark is overwhelming. The noises are scary. You aren’t sure you’ll ever find your way out. But you just keep going. Until one day, you see a beam of light up ahead. You keep fighting your way through the darkness and eventually you step into the light. 

The truths I discovered about life and myself while I was walking in the darkness were my Dad’s last gift to me — the last lesson from my lifelong teacher. To be honest, I’d trade all this enlightenment in a heartbeat if it meant getting him back. But without that as an option, the next best thing is to wrap myself in these truths, knowing that without my Dad, I’d never have them. Thank you, Dad. 

After I fought my way out of the darkness this year, I gained this deep gratitude for what I do have. I’m grateful for every step I take on my walks, getting to watch the earth come back to life as the seasons change, watching my kids grow and laugh (and fight and cry), walking through this life with Scott, getting the best hugs from my Mom, hanging out with my sisters and brothers and watching our kids become best friends. I’m grateful for Scott’s parents, who love and support me just as much as my parents. I’m grateful for all of my friends, from the ones who I’ve known for 30 years to the ones that are brand new (and everyone in between). I’m grateful for the kindness and wisdom of strangers. I’m grateful to be 37. 

My book will end someday. It may be 60 years from now or it may be tomorrow. I know I will feel the darkness again — it’s the price of love — but until then, I’ll be over here soaking up as much joy and gratitude for as many chapters as I can. 

On Grief

I’ve been on this journey for nearly nine months now. This is my first true grief journey and I haven’t been on it long. I know that I don’t know everything about grief (far from it), but I have discovered bits of wisdom along the way. I have debated whether to share those here, but reading about others’ experiences grieving helped me immensely, so it’s my hope that sharing my journey will help someone, too. Most especially, my children, who will someday walk a similar path. 

Good grief, where do I start? (Ha. Haha. Ha. Okay, that was my first and last pun for today.)  

Before my Dad died, I thought grief was a linear path. You started out heartbroken and after time (likely years) your heart was healed! What I discovered was while there is definitely a beginning, there is no end to grief. We will grieve those we love for the rest of our lives. Some days will be overwhelmingly sad, some days will be full of anger, some will be filled with joy and most days will be filled with a mix of emotions. Our grief will always be with us in one form or another. The most obvious shape it takes, and the one I pictured in my head before this, is sorrow. But over the last several months, I’ve seen my grief take the shape of gratitude, wisdom, understanding — even joy. 

In a way, the idea that my grief will always be here is oddly comforting. My grief is a direct result of my love for my Dad and I don’t want that to ever leave. So, instead, I carry him around in my heart and try my best to feel whatever emotion the grief hands me. Today, my grief was in the shape of sorrow. I was missing my Dad so fiercely it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Last week, my grief was shaped as gratitude, for all of the time and experiences and lessons and memories I had with him. Who knows what shape it will take next week. I try hard to not fight the emotion, but to just let it wash over me. Those feelings that are bubbling up to the surface need to be felt and heard and allowed to exist. And if I give them time and space to be felt, they are usually followed by wisdom or new perspective.

I feel like I’ve had so many little epiphanies about life, love, death and our purpose in this world and nearly all of them came after I let the raw emotions be felt. So, I guess that’s my first piece of advice. Take time to feel your emotions. There were many nights that I buried myself in a TV show because it was easier to be in the characters’ world than my own life. And you need that, too! You need to be able to have a break from the grief and the deep thoughts. Sometimes I felt so lost inside my own head I wasn’t sure I would find my way back out to “normal Katie.” So, take as many breaks as you need — the grief will wait for you. But, just as important as the breaks, is the grieving. 

Another misconception of mine was to think that “grieving” just happened to you. And at first, it did. I’d be sitting at a stoplight and just sobbing. Or I’d drive out to my parents' house and the tears would start as soon as I turned onto their road. The grief was just spilling out at first — almost entirely sadness at the beginning. That’s the kind of grief that’s hard to avoid. That grief wave is coming whether you want it to or not. But I found there is another kind of grief. The kind that’s sitting in the back of your head and heart, waiting to be tended to by you. 

Shortly after my Dad died, I got a card from a friend who I hadn’t talked to in awhile. It was simple and beautiful and just said “I hope you are able to take the time you need to grieve.” The idea of taking time to grieve was new to me. I thought sobbing at a stoplight was taking the time. But it wasn’t. 

This idea kept rolling around in my head until I decided it was time I started taking my morning walks again. Away from the kids and my phone and all the distractions. It was just me, nature and my grief. And it was there that I started to come to terms with my Dad’s death. 

I have walked nearly every morning since April. Before Dad got sick, the wildflowers’ beauty and persistence would bring me so much joy. The sunrise would fill me with a sense of peace and hope. But as I started walking again after he died, all of those things brought more sadness. It hurt to think he’d never get to see these wonders again. I’d just sob. I’d walk and cry, cry and walk. I let the grief come to the surface, the memories, the anger, the hopelessness — all of it. I felt it and heard it and let it roll over me. 

After I wiped my tears, that’s when the reflecting and deep thinking would happen. For example, it occurred to me one day that eventually every single person in the world would feel this kind of pain. Well, at least the lucky ones. The ones who were lucky enough to have loved and been loved. That took me by surprise. I’m actually one of the lucky ones. Here I am, feeling so very heartbroken, sitting on a rock in the middle of the prairie sobbing, cursing the unfairness of life, and I’m actually one of the lucky ones. 

Day after day, these little epiphanies would pop up as I took the time to grieve. All of of these sayings and phrases you’ve heard your whole life take on a deeper meaning. “You only live once.” We’ve all heard it and we all would say we understand it. Some of us announce it right before skydiving or staying up late when you know you have to be up early with the kids the next day (which is about as scary as skydiving). But during one of my walks, when I was reflecting on death and its way of coming whenever it wants, I felt the weight of those words so profoundly. I actually FELT the profoundness of it. I had to stop walking for a minute as it settled into my mind. 

All summer long I had these moments and I told Scott I felt like I was experiencing a metamorphosis. The Katie he knew in January was no longer here. She was changing and deepening in ways I didn’t even understand. Everything just felt off. Like someone had come along and tilted my world. I could still recognize it as my world, but it was different now. (For my fellow Harry Potter fans, it was like seeing the Thestrals, which is another example where I felt the profoundness of something that before seemed very obvious and literal.)

Despite all of this wisdom I was gaining, I was still so overwhelmingly sad. There was happiness mixed in, too, of course. How could it not be with three hilarious little humans running around? But outside of the kids and my escapism into books and TV, my world was submerged in sorrow. Everything I saw, heard, felt, was through a veil of sadness. I was still taking my walks and trying to just walk my grief journey as best I could. Scott felt completely helpless. He could see my despair, but there was nothing he could do. I just kept telling him this is a path I have to walk alone. There is no way for him to give me a hand and help me off of it. I just have to keep walking, wherever it takes me, hoping that eventually, it won’t hurt so much. 

And one day, for only a moment, I saw a light in the metaphorical darkness. I had been avoiding my favorite place to walk all summer because it’s wooded and in the summer is full of mosquitoes and spider webs. One day this fall, the temperatures dropped for a few days (scaring away all the pests) and I ventured out to my best-loved trail. I started walking. The sunlight was shining through the leaves. The woods were a beautiful mix of greens and browns. The trees were hugging the trail, almost providing an archway as I walked. I was about five minutes in when the tears just started streaming down my cheeks. Surprising even me, these were not tears of sadness, but tears of joy. For the first time since my Dad died, I was feeling real, true joy. It wasn’t submerged in sadness, it was just joy. It lasted the whole walk. The veil of sadness returned quickly as I finished walking, but it’s all I needed. Just a bit of hope that someday, it wouldn’t feel like this. Someday, my world wouldn’t be full of despair. It was like a salve to my broken heart. 

After that, I returned almost daily. This place, with its towering trees and silent steadiness was healing me. If those trees could hear me, I’d thank them a million times for helping me find my way out of the darkness. 

Which brings me to my next piece of advice: find the salve for your soul. You may know exactly what heals you emotional aches or you may have to discover it, but find it. Take the time and the effort and do some trial and error, but find the place that brings you peace and let it wrap you in its comfort. It could be a literal place like the beach or the woods or the mountains or the prairie or it could be a figurative place like writing or singing or meditating. Just try to find it. Grieving is hard enough without a salve. 

Are you still here? You’re a trooper. Or you love me. Or your heart hurts and you’re looking for anything and everything that might ease the ache. If that’s the case, I’m so, so sorry you’re here. I wish you were living a life where you saw the blog titled “On Grief” and didn’t immediately click on it with hopes it might have that one tip that fixes everything. But this next bit of advice may help. Or it won’t. It’s a bit existential and I’m not even sure I have my head fully wrapped around it. I once tried to explain it to Scott and went down so many twists and turns in my brain, I think I finished upside down and inside out. 

So, (deep breath) here goes nothing. 

While on one of my deep-thinking walks, I discovered a truth about life. Once upon a time, if you would have asked me “what is life about?” my answer would have been similar to the kinds of things you find in an obituary. Or plot points in a book. Or milestones. Being born, childhood achievements, angsty teenage years, making best friends, starting and ending relationships, marriages, careers, kids being born, etc. What I realized is that while life is made up of all the moments both big and small — things you’d find in an obituary – that isn’t all or even the main answer to the question, “what is life about?” I’ve realized now there is something much more important happening during and around and between all those moments. Life is about discovering our own truths. 

I used to think there was a set of answers to life’s questions and eventually I’d learn them all with enough life experience. But, you guys, there are no answers! The “answer” is the question. It’s more the journey to discovering our truths, less the truths themselves. Makes total sense, right? Now you see why when I finished telling Scott, I was upside down and inside out. 

Let me give you an example to help with clarity: Last year, Grace had problems with a friend-bully making her school days miserable. I took it as my mission to help her find the answer to this bully problem. I tried to pass along all of my wisdom on friendships and true friends and fake friends and all of that. I had learned so many lessons from my younger days that I NEEDED her to know so her heart wouldn’t hurt so bad. And while my intentions were pure, I was missing the point. The point wasn’t for her to have happier days at school, the point was for her to discover the truths inside of her that would allow her to have happier days. If I said, “She isn’t a true friend and you shouldn’t care what fake friends think of you,” she’d hear me, but it wouldn’t have the same impact as her doing some soul searching and discovering for herself the meaning of true friendship. 

So, that leads me to why I was initially hesitant to write about my grief journey. If I believe that life’s best truths are the ones you discover yourself then why am I sharing all of my truths with you? After much internal deliberation on that question, I decided this: my truths aren’t your truths. They aren’t meant to be. But that doesn’t mean that my truths don’t help you find yours (and vice versa). I read every bit of info on grief that I find and I take bits and pieces of what others have discovered that really speak to me. I combine others’ perspectives with my own and end up discovering a truth about life that rings true to me. 

The same is true for parenting. I’m not going to stop giving my kids advice or share my experiences with them — I’m still here to guide and help them navigate life. I just view my role as a parent a bit differently now. I’m not trying to hand them all of life’s truths, but provide a stable, nurturing foundation so they can seek out their own truths. 

Yeesh, did that make any sense? I hope so. If it didn’t though, that’s okay, too, because my truth isn’t your truth, so you didn’t miss the secret to life or anything.     

We’re coming up on the end here, I can feel it. 

So, this is my story of how I started my lifelong journey of grief. I have bits of wisdom that I picked up along the way, but I’ve only just begun. I’m still walking the path and if I’m lucky, I will experience this kind of deep grief many times over before my book is finished being written. This all sounds like the kind of thing someone posts after they are healed! fixed! cured!, but as I said earlier, there is no cure for grief. My sadness and my ache for my dad are ever-present. I carry them inside me, just as I carry my love for him. Forever and always. 

If you are here because you’re just starting your grief journey or you’ve been on it for some time now or even if you haven’t begun yet — good luck finding your truths and making peace with your journey. 

I See You

Dear Grace & Claire - 

In a world that is dominated by the emotions, desires, capabilities and needs of your three-year-old brother, I feel the need to tell you something. 

I see you. I hear you. I love you. 

I see your spirit as you dance in the driveway like no one is looking. 

I hear your maturity as you take a deep breath and restrain from screaming when you get frustrated. 

I see your vulnerability when your emotions get the best of you. I hear your cry for help navigating those complex emotions. 

I hear the hope in your voice when you ask to play a game with your Dad and I. 

I hear the disappointment when we can’t. 

I see your compassion when you try to cheer up your sad brother. Or mother. Or father.

I hear your growing sense of humor when you zing your Dad. 

I am quite sure this world we live in feels and looks and sounds very Henry-focused. He’s our squeaky wheel, no doubt. But I see you. I see your happy moments, your sad moments, your angry moments. I see the challenges you are struggling with — both external and internal — as you grow and discover your world. And no matter how distracted I look or exasperated I feel with your brother’s 47th tantrum of the day, I see you girls. I hear you girls. I love you girls. 

Always and forever.