Happy New Year!

I know myself. What I know is that I am not one for New Year’s resolutions. 

I know if I say resolve to lose weight that before the end of January, I will eat my way into gaining ten pounds. If I resolve not to swear, I will develop some sort of psychological compulsion to explicate every other word, thus filling the damn-hell swear jar before the end of the week. Then there are the relationship goals. They are the worst! If I set  an intention to be a better friend, sister, mother, or wife, for instance, I will certainly self sabotage, thus alienating myself from the entire world, being blocked from social media, removed from group texts and chastised by a relative. Oh, oh and if I rededicate myself to doing more than going for a walk each day, I will most certainly be forced into an online-streaming binge, unable to shower, brush my teeth and get off my couch. 

The truth is when setting any sort of resolution or goal, I am filled with crazy performance anxiety and a shuddersome dread (obviously). This fear would most definitely lead me right back into therapy, a place where I can safely unpack the root of my goal setting angst.

Maybe my goal-avoidance-performance-anxiety is genetics. I really and sincerely know that if I diet, I gain weight. I am so freaked out with failure that I make myself fail to prove I cannot succeed. You know what’s weird? My self sabotage response is like a reflex? It takes me until I go up a few pants sizes until I am like, 

“Woah, Beth, diets really stress you out.” 

So if I said something to myself like, 

“Hey, Beth, you cannot eat sugar,” 

I will fill my dream board with the message: You must devour all the sugar!

I have — devoured all the sugar, that is.

What I am getting at is why goals freak me out. I am not sure why. Ok. Sure, I could argue that goals freak me out because I am afraid of failure. Then again, I do not think I am really afraid of failure, but I am afraid of letting people down. What I think I have is more like a twitch/reflex. And here and now the twitch is my ability to set  goals. And the letting people down part is the completing goals part. Consequently, when I am focused on the twitch, all I think about is that I will let someone down. 

Ok. All of you who want to diagnose me, enjoy. For me, however, I think my twitch really is probably more about my baggage combined with what my brain does when I think I am going to fail. 

I remember when I decided to finish my last semester of college. Because my initial grades were less than stellar, Dave and I realized it was best to finish this semester at the college where I began: Brigham Young University. Determinedly, I jumped through several hoops, including having to meet weekly with an academic probation counselor, convincing BYU admissions that I was serious about graduating (they asked). Then convincing people to write letters of recommendation on my behalf. Then tracking down my Mormon bishop, (I was no longer attending the LDS church), assuring him that I was not going to go rogue and obtaining an ecclesiastical endorsement. 

At the time, We were living in Park City and trying to sell our house. Dave was working full time in San Francisco. On the weekends, he flew back to Utah. Kyle and Eli were enrolled in different Salt Lake City schools. Each day we were out the door around 7:45 am. We drove a half and hour through Parley’s Canyon from Park City to Salt Lake City. I dropped Kyle off first. Then Eli. Each drop off was met with eye contact, an, “I love you,” and a “hand hug.” Then I drove another hour to the BYU campus in Provo.

It was my first day of classes. There I was, sitting in my car. Because I did not have  a parking pass, I was parked about a half a mile from my class. Sitting there, my heart began beating so hard, I could feel the pulse, pulse, pulse exploding in my ears. I was sweaty. I sat paralyzed. I knew I was going to fail. 

“Beth, you should have stayed in Salt Lake City.” I thought to myself.

Panicked, I called Dave. I struggled conveying my fear. 

“Dave, I can’t do this. I am not worthy.”

I am certain he was like,

“You did all this work to get here, why on earth do you think you are going to fail? You are worthy! You are amazing.” 

I was not buying what he was saying. (Bless him for trying.) Now officially late to my first class still in the car, and convinced that I suck, I called my friend, Beth. (Yes. She is  a real person and shares my same name.) I heard her voice and burst into tears. Quickly, I vomited out all my doubt:

“I am too old! I am too agnostic! I am definitely too dumb to be back in college. I am not worthy! I cannot do this.”

 Here is what she said:

“Beth Adams, I believe in you. Catch your breath. I will stay on the phone with you until you are in your classroom.” 

For some reason while we were talking, I moved the car. She urged me just to park. Finally I parked and got out. I grabbed my backpack and locked the car, all while telling her why I completely suck.

Beth stayed on the phone. Calmly she continued,

“Put one foot in front of the other. Keep walking. Just keep walking. I am here. You don’t even have to talk. I will stay on the phone. Just keep walking.”

I made it to class. My face was covered in tears. I took in a deep breath:

“I MADE IT TO CLASS!”

I sat there smiling. I looked around. I was ok. For the next few weeks, each time I took the Provo exit, I called Beth. Each time she stayed on the phone with me and talked me out of the car, up the street, up the stairs and into class. Each time she told believed in me. Each time she told me I was good. Each time she told me I would be ok. 

Eventually I made it out of the car on my own. I cried through all of my papers. I continued meeting with my academic probation counselor. Eventually he said, I did not need to come anymore. I finished the semester I finished the semester with a 4.0.

Recently, and in front of me, a friend told Kyle that Kyle is lucky he has Dave’s genes.

“Your dad is so smart. Thank goodness you got his genes.”

My friend also reminded Kyle how poorly “your mom” performed the first time “she” was at college. He was not wrong. That being said, he was not right. In that moment I realized I need to hold space for the fact that I am also the badass who got herself back into college, received really good grades (all A’s except for one B+), and graduated. 

I never knew things would be ok, (no matter what the outcome.) Maybe you understand that feeling too. Maybe my anxiety really is genetics. Maybe it is baggage. Maybe it is both. All this to say, maybe goal setting, or finishing something you start, freaks you out too. Maybe like me, you have history and brain full of self-defeating messages, messages that get in the way.

In the end, or really the beginning of 2021, I want to set some easy goals. I want to be happy. I also want to post every week day. I might not make these goals. I also believe I can. I also believe you can too.

Happy 2021!

It is 2:37AM and I cannot sleep. Now it is 2:38AM and by the time I read the sentence through, it is 2:39AM. The clock ticks, ticks on and I feel sad. My mind races. It has been racing for hours. I wish I was a better person. I wish I was not centered on me and all the things that have slipped away. I wish so many things. I wish it was not so easy for me to step aside. I wish my dad did not abandon me all those years ago. I wish someone had fought harder for me. I wish my husband was interested in me more of the time. I wish he could talk to me without looking at his phone. I wish I could talk to him without uttering the phrase, “are you listening?” I am sure it is annoying. I wish Eli was not so abrupt tonight. It hurt my feelings. I wish Kyle could talk to me like he used to. I miss him. I wish his girlfriend liked me. I do not think she does. I wish my mom’s hearing was better. I wish she and I could see eye to eye on faith and religion. I wish my mother-in-law were not “marinating” (Dave’s word) in Fox News and right wing conspiracy theories. I wish we could find a way to bridge. As the years move forward, the river only seems wider. I wish I saw my family more. I wish when I saw my family that we actually knew how to talk to one another. I wish Dave’s family reached out to him more. I wish it mattered.

My problem: I am insecure. Even when people just want me to go away, I am intensely determined to make it right. It is annoying. I am annoying. I do not know my father. His cruel rejection haunts my every cell. I am sure his severe neglect lies at the core of my need to NOT let you down. I hate it. I hate being canceled. It hurts. That is why I hate hurting you, and then I do. I hurt you. Just the other day Eli said,

“You know it is not just you. It is not all your fault. We also have to do our part to make things right.”

He is not wrong.

I love Dave deeply. He is a wonderful husband and father. He is my best friend. I love Kyle and Eli fiercely. They are kind. They think so big. They are invested and interested in the world around them. I love that both boys are dating women they really care about. I want to have great relationships with the women my boys love. Of course these women are important to me, no matter what their future holds. I like them. I hope they like me. I love my family. I love my mom. I love that she always is trying to be better and work through issues, even when they are uncomfortable. I love my brothers and sisters. I love that my sister vents to me. I love that my other sister appreciates my lengthy words and what she calls, “my big heart.” I love that my brother sends me pictures of his long Covid hair. My family is trying. I know our relationship is clunky. I have definitely complained about it being clunky. I want it better. I love Dave’s family. I love that Dave’s sister laughs at my jokes. I love how his mom fantasizes then makes her imaginings a reality, like her cruises and her home on the coast. I love that she raised such a beautiful son.

Instead of worrying about being judged for the color of my skin, I get to spend this sleepless night indulging my hopes, sorrows and fears.

I am white. I’m at a high socio-economic status. I am privileged.

I wonder about these past months. I wonder if the disruption of a global virus outbreak has destabilized us enough to wake up. Am I awake? I pause. I am stopped in my tracks. I see it as clear as the new day coming. Am I having a sleepless night because I am worried about my sons making it home safely, or getting hassled because of the color of their skin? No. I breathe it in. If I had been having insomnia last month, I do not believe the thought about systemic racism or privilege would have entered my mind. I would just be irritated at the sleeplessness. I am certain I would have been wondering if I had washed my hands sufficiently or when I would get to see my friends again.

Tonight feels different. I am completely wound up as I begin my fifth day of oral steroids. I have bad asthma and yes, I had to take a Covid test to receive treatment. The Covid test was negative. So steroid-spun-out me gets to sit at my desk in my safe upscale neighborhood and indulge these thoughts. Then I get to go back to bed. At this moment, I am only worried about the things I cannot control, but can totally indulge.

You know what? It is uncomfortable; the pain, that is. I sense my thoughts shift. I am a little embarrassed by all of this indulging. I want to move past me. I want to move past the things I cannot control and the things I need to let be. What I can do is be honest. I can speak what is true:

“I do not know what it is like to be a person of color. I never will.”

As I vomit out and embrace my own pain, I am able to make space for the pain beyond me. I recognize that it is only a starting point. I feel selfish, self absorbed and neglectful. It is oddly refreshing. This pain stings. Feeling this discomfort slaps me into the present. I think about this week. I think about our world. I think about Minneapolis, my home. I think about George Floyd. I cannot erase the sight of seeing a police officer kneeling on George Floyd’s neck. I am haunted. I think about Minneapolis’s Sanford Middle School and the bags of food people gathered during the riots. I feel community. I feel peace. I feel love. Does that make sense? Or make me seem more selfish?

Wether I make sense or not, hold me to my words. Hold me to my hopes. Use me.

I am sorry I have been so wrapped up in my own pain, rejection and sorrow that I neglected the pain around me. I am grateful for those who are saying, “no more.” I am grateful for those who are asking me to listen. I am in awe with the protests. Really? The protests move me. Did you see the protest in Los Angeles? All those people marching. It blew my mind. Each day people show up to say, “enough.” It is working. I am grateful for the people who so easily forgive. I am grateful for those who listen. I am grateful for those who give me the courage to speak up and then promise me I will probably get it wrong. They tell me to keep trying. And I promise it will probably be uncomfortable. I can stop worrying about being liked and accepted. I can speak up. I can hold your hand. I can listen. I can push back. I can try to make the world a better place. I can make eye contact. I will say hello. I will not look away. I will stand with you and stand up for you. You are not alone. I want to get it right.

I don’t want my thoughts to slip away into the emptiness of the night. I hope they don’t.

It is now 3:44AM. Covid is back on the rise and people are working through the next moment.

I will end with this: (Words Much better than my own)

Tiffany Haddish on George Floyd.

Trevor Noah on Connection.

Writer, Amber Ruffin’s, encounters with the police.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o – Colonialism as a Process of Alienation

Last week tonight – John Oliver – Police

The 14th Amendment to the United States Constitution, Section 1:

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

I feel like I need to start this post with a bunch of disclaimers. 

I very much comprehend that people are enduring suffering much greater than I am. As a result, out of an abundance of caution, I often start any conversation, written or spoken, acknowledging how much I get it! I hate that people are dying of Covid19. I hate that people who should not be dying are dying, period. I hate that my cousin & my friend are currently undergoing cancer treatment. I hate that my brother-in-law is on oxygen (100% of the time). I hate that people everywhere are going hungry, even some students who attend school with my own children. I very sincerely recognize that many are losing their livelihoods and that small businesses are going out of business. I also realize that many people are antsy and are so done staying home. I definitely think we need to find a way to remain patient while supporting each other through all of this. My guess is I am not alone. 

If it helps, I hear you. I see you. I am sorry you are suffering. I am grateful for you.  

In truth, I began writing this post yesterday, I mean, last week. In between my seventy-five daily “calm down” walks (maybe a slight exaggeration) and trying to encourage my extremely downtrodden children, I recognize that I am sad, like really, really sad. I am struggling. I cannot get my sleep cycle in the right place. It did not help that Eli began texting me at 3:26AM:

“Mom, I cannot sleep.”

After many back-and-forths, I was awake. In fairness, I asked Eli the night before to let me know if he could not sleep (again). I decided to “keep it simple,” (my new mantra), let him know I loved him and told him that I wished I could make it easier for him. Then I put my phone on “Do not Disturb.”  Now awake, I wrote a middle-of-the-night frustration letter. (I did not send to the frustrated party, and no, it was not writing to Eli about texting me in the middle of the night.) Then I listened to the beginning of a book on Mosquitoes, called, “Mosquito.” (It is actually really good.) Again I tried to will myself to sleep.  Instead, I touched Dave’s face every time his breathing became as loud as a snore. By 7:00AM, or thereabouts, I was back to sleep. 

Now awake, I find myself in an erratic haze of self isolation, homemade masks, and dashed plans. I often feel like the words I need to express are floating right outside of my grasp. I spend way too much time watching YouTube videos, considering making cinnamon rolls & scrolling social media sites. I feel like I should learn how to play either Minecraft or Animal Crossing and by the end of episode two, I became bored with “Tiger King.” I know. I hear your voice in my head (because we cannot speak face to face),

 “How could you get bored with “Tiger King?” 

I do not have the energy to explain. I just did. I got bored with “Tiger King.” I am beyond certain that I am not alone. Where I may be more unique is that I am also a person who can easily take twenty minutes to answer a yes/no or “how am I feeling” question, or wander my way through an opening thought. 

Here is the deal: Our youngest son, Eli, is a high school senior. He is a wonderful human, albeit a teenage human. He is wise, empathetic, sensitive, confident and kind. He is the first to consider other people and their feelings. He stands up for his friends (and even people he is not so fond of). He always stands up for me, especially when Kyle and or Dave are being dumb. Is he perfect? Absolutely not. Can he be moody? Absolutely! Nevertheless, does he recognize that other people are more profoundly impacted by the adverse effects of Covid19 (the Coronavirus)? Most definitely! In fact, Eli is the first one to vocalize the manipulative racism he saw when someone called Covid19, “The Chinese Flu.” One of the reasons Eli opted not to meet us in New Zealand was his worry for his grandma and grandpa here in Utah.

“Wawa and Harvey are old. They should not be exposed to this. I want to stay home to make sure they are ok.” Did Eli also want to stay home from our trip because of his girlfriend? Of course he did (and that is also ok).

The other night was intense. After getting into it with our eldest son, Kyle, I walked into the kitchen. Eli was standing there when I burst into tears. He asked what was wrong. After listening to my weepy response, he suggested I “Dap him up*,” (a special handshake), which I did. (He graded my performance and gave my “Dap” a mercy A+.) As a result of his tender compassion, I was now sobbing. That is when my very disappointed high school senior cradled me in his arms and gave me a great big and very long hug. 

The other day Eli and I were talking. Reflectively he said, 

“Mom, my last day of high school was Friday, March 13. Yes! Friday, the 13th. I did not know it then, but it was my last day of high school. I wish I had known. I wish I had time to say goodbye to all of my friends. This is high school. This is the end of a long run. I was in a bad mood that day. I even sat out of my PE class. And now it is over.”

I felt the weight of his words. I knew my words would not make any difference, but I said them anyway. 

“Eli, that just sucks. I am so sorry.”

It has been no surprise for me to hear that Eli is struggling to keep up with his homework. It was no surprise that he slept in until almost noon (remember he was texting me at 3:26AM). And has been sleeping past noon regularly. Last night he told me that day and night have become meaningless and that when he can see his friends again, they will have an all nighter to reset their sleep cycles. It was also not surprising when I asked him if he needed anything to help him get out of bed the other day, he said, “Bacon.” So I made him some bacon. He came into the kitchen and asked for a hug.

“Mom, I am not doing ok.” He said.

Then he ate his bacon and made a B.L.T. with the rest.

My heart hurts for Eli. My heart hurts for all high school seniors. I keep thinking about them. I keep thinking about the abruptness of this moment. I do not think any of us really understood this would be our moment. When Eli was born (in Northern Virginia), and the anesthesiologist was on the phone buying his 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics tickets, I never thought,

“Hey kid. I bet your senior year of high school will be hijacked by a global pandemic. Pro Tip: Make sure to go to a few extra proms.”

No. That is not what I was thinking or advising. Instead, at Eli’s birth I was in awe. When the doctor first held him up for me to see, I thought Eli looked a lot like Dave’s brother. I said as much. I also thought, 

“why is this dude on the phone during a cesarean section? Like seriously, hang up the phone. Why isn’t anyone telling him to hang up the phone?” 

Mostly, however, I was blown away. Eli was beautiful! (He still is.) He was breathing. This tiny, adorable human had such a powerful scream. He had ten fingers and ten toes, (still does, thank God). I was elated. This is is what I was thinking: 

“I get to be his mom.”

And for the past eighteen plus years, being Eli’s mom has been awesome (for real). Sure, are there moments I want to throttle him? Yes. There are so many more moments I can’t believe this amazing human is my son. It blows my mind that he is eighteen. The time when a wonderful two year old Eli used to climb out of bed, locate Dave & me, then make up jokes so he did not have to go back to bed, and all the years since, went way too fast. I mean, come on. Wasn’t Eli just demanding to wear the dinosaur costume in the nativity play? And wasn’t I just neurotically making sure Kyle & Eli’s outfits matched? Wasn’t my neighbor just telling me after a playdate, that Eli would like to be referred to by the name, “Raymundo?” Didn’t Eli just fall asleep on the chairlift and in two different snow banks during ski school? Weren’t Eli and I just racing from the biting flies? Wasn’t Eli just learning a pogo stick routine for the 4th grade talent show? Didn’t we just eat gelato at Eli’s favorite gelato place, which just happens to be in Rome? Wasn’t it just yesterday that Eli broke his jaw and had it wired shut for two months? 

Yes. It went way too fast. In reality, I cannot believe we are here. In fact, even with a proper traditional high school graduation, I am certain I would feel like this time rushed right on by. 

Nevertheless, this year is different. Traditional is not what the class of 2020 will get and is currently receiving. Their end is abrupt. It caught us all off guard, including the school district. (They want the seniors to tell them what they want to do for graduation.) Every time I mention this to Eli, he says, 

“What we want is a normal high school graduation.”

The class of 2020 will not have a normal high school graduation. Maybe someday it will make a good story about the time senior year was canceled. Right now it just sucks.

In the end, I have these two children. They are my gift. When they hurt. I hurt. Right now they are both hurting —  a lot. The best I can do is listen, support and help them grieve. I know it will be ok. I also know it is ok to be disappointed and sad. I keep hearing people say, “The way to understand other peoples’ suffering is to process your own.” I agree.  

We will get there. 

I think we’ve already established that our son acutely comprehends that having his Sydney study abroad canceled is indeed a “first world problem.” Further, I thought we’ve made it painfully clear that we recognize that much worse things can happen to a person than having their senior year of high school abruptly come to an end. Yes. We know that our sons’ losses are a privileged disappointment. Nevertheless, I am curious, if you do not want to hear our truth, why do you keep asking us? Is it a set up? A test? Are you trying to gauge our narcissism?

Here is the truth: They are sad. They are disappointed. They are lonely. They miss their friends. They are depressed. They sleep a lot. They struggle to get their homework done. Most days our older son says he is at a 3 – 4.5 out of a 1-10 happiness scale. Today he is a 6.5 — a gift. Our younger son told me earlier,

“Mom, if I cannot go back to school and finish my senior year, I am afraid I will always struggle with completion issues.”

Consequently, your “instructional” question actually feels like a trap, especially when you respond with a smirk and proclaim,

“well, you know, first world problems,” [insert your eye-roll here] and then follow with, “people are losing their homes, their jobs and their lives.” 

Here is the deal: I think you are missing the point. If we cannot feel and process our own pain, how can we relate to someone else’s? And if we are not allowed to process pain, then how will we be able to understand and comprehend other people’s suffering?

Ok. Let me back up. Somewhere in this socially distant world we now live in, also lives my dad. He will be eighty in September. Because he convinced himself that he is not my biological father (and told me so), he bailed on me many years ago. (It is true. He did tell me I am not his. Unfortunately for both of us, I am.) As a result of our is-she-or-isn’t-she-your-child conundrum, I have never ever had much of a relationship with him. It has been so long since I have seen him that I probably could not pick him out in a crowd or a Zoom chat screen. Regardless of our dysfunction, there was this time he reached out to me specifically. I was fifteen years old. He asked me if he could take me to lunch. He picked me up. Then we drove to a restaurant in Minnetonka, Minnesota called the Good Earth. (It is now a Champ’s Sports Bar). As we sat there, uncomfortably eating, he said that he wanted to have this lunch with me because he needed to tell me some things that he was not sure anyone else would tell me:

(1.) He told me about sex. Yes. He gave me the big sex talk, which my mom, the school, and this one girl on the school activity bus had already given me. I know you know how the sex talk goes so I will move on to his second topic. Wait! Before I do, don’t you think it is odd that my stranger-dad thought it was his job to explain intercourse? Anyway, moving on.

(2.) My Bio-dad said the following (or at least, this is what I heard.):

“Pain is pain. I hate it when people talk about starving kids in Africa and how you should know exactly how they are feeling and that you are somehow a bad person if you complain that you are hungry.” Then he paused, cleared his throat and continued, “You should not feel bad. You don’t know how they feel. You don’t know what it is like to be a starving kid in Africa. You do not know what it is like to live their life. The best you can do is to feel badly for them and to try and be a better person.” He paused one more time and then sternly admonished, “Beth, your pain is just as important. It is not less. And because you say out loud that you are sad, or that you are hungry, does not imply that you think you are better than anyone else. It is your story. Your framework. Your world. It is ok to feel sad when you are sad. It is ok to feel that pain. No one should tell you how to feel, or tell you you are less than. No one.”

I am grateful he felt compelled to share that with me. If I asked him now, which would mean I would have to find him, I am not sure he would remember his words or why he needed to share them with me. But I remember. My dad’s advice was brilliant. I am grateful. I always have been. 

And here is where the story comes together: my best friend Marianne is a single mom with three kids at home. She makes her living as a hairstylist and does not receive child support. Due to the rules of essential businesses and social isolation during the Covid-19 pandemic, overnight she lost her livelihood. She has not been able to work. She is definitely not experiencing first world or privileged issues. I have cried for her. I have listened as she has shared her frustrations and fears. I have spoken about her before. In the next month or two, she could get evicted. She and her children could become homeless. She could be completely devastated. She is suffering more than I can imagine. 

The other morning I was super depressed. I turned my phone off. I slept really late. I did not want to get out of bed. I saw my phone light up. I saw that it was Marianne. She was trying to FaceTime. I hit the “decline” button and rolled over. Eventually I got out of bed, teary-eyed. I took extra long brushing my teeth, cleaning my retainers, and washing my hands. I went into the kitchen to start breakfast. I decided I should call her back so I FaceTimed her. She answered on the first ring. I could see that she was sitting outside. 

“Hello Chica.” I said.

With that, Marianne burst into tears. As she held a tissue to her face, she sobbed. I assumed she was stressing about money. I started to ask her about her job. I wanted to ask her about her rent, or if she had enough to eat.

Instead, I decided to pause and just ask her why she was so sad.

Here is what she told me:

“I just took my five year old to a birthday party. Because of the quarantine, we had to do a drive-by parade and just wave to the girl in his class. I put some streamers on the car to make it more festive. As we drove away, he burst into tears. He is so sad about not being able to see his friends. He is so sad he is not in school. He asked me if we will ever be ok. He asked me if I was going to die. I feel so sad that he could not have a normal birthday party.”

Then I wondered. If you did not know her and only heard Marianne’s story about the birthday party, would we say, 

“Oh, first world problems. Get over it.” 

Or would we see that these pain-filled moments are actually what are bringing us together. They are relatable moments. See, here is a person whose whole world is falling apart. What really made her sad was how sad her son was that it was not a traditional birthday party. Obviously Marianne does not know when the rules of self isolation will end. She doesn’t know what will happen to her career or livelihood. But today, she can do something to cheer up her son or to let him know things will be OK. And in this disruptive mess of a world, these are also the moments we may be able to address or even control. Instead of deciding whose pain is valid, how about we use these hard moments to connect? How about we recognize that we are intelligent beings. It is obvious to me that my friend who just had chemotherapy is most likely suffering more than I am. It doesn’t mean I am less-than for feeling sad and not wanting to get out of bed. It does not mean my boys are selfish because they are let down.

Ultimately, I believe we can hold space for all of it.