Restarting My Hard Drive: September 2019

Heyyyyy friends.

I wrote this post weeks ago, almost posted it, then almost deleted it.

I hemmed and hawed for days.

It’s not the picture I had hoped to paint for this season of my life.

It felt redundant. And ridiculous. And embarrassing.

But true.

For better or for worse, this is who I am and this is where I am - so I need to put on my brave pants and own it.

Deep breaths.

Recently Mr. Restarting my Hard Drive and I took a trip to the teacher store. He needed a few last items for his classroom and I wanted to peruse the toddler section because somehow our brand new infant has turned into a toddler (still unclear how these things happen). In retrospect I was naive to think I could just waltz on into the store like it was a normal trip to Target. It hit me like a bowling ball in the stomach. Along with the rainbow of organizers and posters and math manipulatives and folders and flashcards were the sea of teachers wandering the aisles looking for new ideas and anything they may have forgotten. It wasn’t hard to spot the veterans, who knew exactly what they needed and the brand new teachers, stocking up on absolutely everything that they likely won’t need (no, you don’t actually need 7 different shapes of post-it notes - been there). There was a line at the laminator and a mother and daughter teacher combo talked about their desk arrangements while they chose pencil holders.

Wiping back unexpected tears, I smiled away the lump in my throat for my daughter as she gleefully pointed at every single item on the shelves and I picked out her first package of crayons.

Later that day, the tears found their way to the surface again and this time I couldn’t push them back. I’m not a crier, generally speaking, and this tidal wave of emotion nearly knocked me over. This time of year is always hard for me, but for a multitude of reasons, this year hits especially hard.

I miss everything.

All of it.

I miss the first day of school excitement and the pre-holiday chaos. I miss long field trips and long faculty meetings. I miss late night grading and team plannings so long we ordered pizza. I miss Bingo Night and long assemblies spent playing student roulette, moving them around in every possible way to keep the side chatter to an absolute minimum. I miss parent-teacher conferences and back to school night. I miss reading stories on the rug and celebrating birthdays and half-birthdays and dressing up in costumes for various things throughout the year. I miss wearing sparkly shoes on Fridays and attempting to wear my hair down for the first few weeks of school before giving up and wearing a ponytail for the remainder of the year. I miss setting our Monday intentions and sending out our Friday wishes. I miss working with a team, a well-oiled unit that always meant you could poke your head outside of your door and ask for coverage for a quick bathroom trip or run to the copier. I miss having someone genuinely care if I showed up for work every day.

And the kids. Most of all, I miss the kids. Every last one of them, even the ones that pushed buttons I didn’t even know I had. I miss watching the lightbulb go on and helping kids discover their passions. I miss that moment when math finally makes sense or a book becomes readable. I even miss the moments when it didn’t quite click. I miss the stories - told in a way that only makes sense to an 8-year-old. I miss the notes. And the smiles. And the laughter.

I am surrounded by teachers. My husband is a teacher. My mom, mother-in-law, and father-in-law are all retired teachers. The vast majority of my friends are teachers. Many of my clients are teachers. And now, I’m just kind of…there.

I have a new appreciation for the perpetually awkward, non-categorical platypus.

I have moments where I dream about going back, where I convince myself that my body could absolutely handle it and I’ve learned to manage well enough to return. “I could teach part-time!” I tell myself, deeply convinced that my body will agree, and the mere thought brings me such light and joy. Last week I even found myself scrolling through the job postings, not planning really, but just hopefully wondering.

The very next day my cardiologist gave me the “lovely” choice of weekly infusions at the hospital or another surgery, and asked me how I was adjusting to a new medication - the one prescribed for the brand new autoimmune disease I recently added to my acumen.

Woof.

A proverbial throat punch and heavy dose of reality. Just like that, a bubble of a daydream popped.

This beginning of the school year pain is not new, nor did I just leave the classroom recently. If you’re sick of hearing about it and think I should be over it, I don’t blame you. I even agree.

But I’m not.

Truth be told, I’m not sure I ever will be. And the real question is - how do I live with that?

How do I make peace with myself and my future, knowing i’ll never get to do what I planned and prepared and worked for? How do I find new meaning when the career where I felt like the very best version of myself is simply not there? When the one thing that I felt I did fairly well is gone…what then? And how, I ask you, HOW do I really, truly, finally move forward?

I have the most perfect, fabulous, joyfully hilarious little miracle. I am truly grateful to spend pretty much every waking hour together. It’s like having a constant sidekick who not only tolerates your spontaneous need to break into song and dance, but requests it. Fifteen months in and I still don’t believe she is mine. I built a business from scratch and it is a true honor to walk beside my clients as they navigate new waters of health and happiness. I have the very best fur baby in all the land (just try to find a better one, I dare you) and a husband who has traveled through the uncertainty of the last 9 years by my side. My family is far and away my favorite group of people in the world and I won the lottery with my friends. I have a roof over my head and food on the table.

I am truly, deeply, abundantly blessed and have more to be grateful for than I could ever adequately convey.

So…why? How can a person have SO much, and still feel so lost?

Grief and loss are most certainly not linear, and it’s no surprise to anyone that it will grow and change with time. Over the years I have certainly ridden the waves as they came, but truth be told there is one emotion that really has never registered until now.

I’m not an angry person. In fact, I tend to sense confrontation of any sort and run far, FAR away. As a highly sensitive person to a T, I am hugely uncomfortable with other people’s discontent and disagreements, and something like a healthy debate, even among friends, is enough to make my palms sweat. This feeling is so foreign that it took me some time to really register what it was that I was feeling, and longer still to figure out why I felt it. I’m still not sure I want to accept it, but writing it down is a start.

People, I’m pissed.

No, I’m downright furious.

I’ve spent a lot (a LOT) of time in reflection on what changed, which is funny to me because it should have been incredibly obvious. What changed was that my life no longer belongs to me alone - a gift I never thought I’d have, but one that comes with more than I expected. I did not expect to have to turn down a fun toddler music class because it’s the same time as my weekly infusions. I did not expect to be bragging to my husband about how much of a rockstar our daughter is when I go in for blood draws. I did not expect to be completely isolated from a community and not know a single local soul with a child her age. I did not expect to have the people we talk to the most be so far away that my daughter recognizes them the most on a FaceTime screen. I did not expect the look of confusion and sadness when my daughter offers me a bite of her food and I can’t eat it.

I did not expect to be angry on her behalf.

Yes, I am acutely aware that by no longer being in the classroom, I am able to be home with my daughter and spend this time together. Yes, I am very aware of that gift and I know I would be missing her desperately if we weren’t together. But I also know that this isn’t the life I wanted for her. A life spent being shuttled around to my appointments and navigating naps and meals and dog walks while working two jobs without childcare.

It’s not what I wanted for me, but it’s most definitely not what I wanted for her.

But here we are.

Writing to me has been cathartic over the years, a place where I turn when I don’t know what else to do. Oftentimes, I find myself sitting down to write because I inherently know I need to…but don’t even really know what’s going to come out. This particular post has been three-fourths finished for a few weeks. A story suspended in mid-air, waiting for resolution.

Back in January, a client and friend had given me a calendar all about happiness - one of my favorite topics. It’s full of quotes and sunshine and fun little to do lists and when I ripped off the page this week, I felt an ease in my shoulders and a wave of contentment just reading the words.