One day I was leaving my office to go to a program site. It was late afternoon on a weekday, and I had just stepped off the elevator when I saw them. Two little girls – one looked to be about eight years old and the other about six years old. My office was in a building called Plexpod, a coworking space in the heart of the city. Prior to it becoming the Plexpod, the building was a huge middle school for the local school district, with beautiful wood trimmings and wide hallways. On this day when I stepped off the elevator, the two little girls had just shut the door of the office they were leaving and proceeded to skip down the hallway to go to the restroom. They literally skipped from the time they shut the door to the time they reached the restroom. They were smiling as they left the office and it looked so natural for them to be skipping. One could assume this wasn’t the first time they skipped and was probably their preferable mode of movement. I was in awe of them. I couldn’t stop staring at them and could feel the smile on my face. It was almost as if I was watching a scene from a movie – it was so perfect; two little blond-haired girls with pigtails, smiling and skipping down the hallway. Maybe because I’ve never had children of my own, but this was a joy to witness. You may see girls skipping all the time, but for me, this was something that I had not seen – or done – for many, many years. I began to think to myself, when was the last time I had that kind of carefree joy?
Growing up I was such a happy child. I am the youngest of four children and I can now admit that I was pretty spoiled. Although my family (immediate and extended) had difficult and sad moments, I knew I was loved, and we did fun things as a family. I talked A LOT and smiled and laughed even more. So much so that my maternal grandmother called my “grinny”. And it lasted into adulthood – the executive director at my first job out of college called me “sunshine”. Life wasn’t always easy, but I always saw the positive and things just seemed to work out for me. I don’t think I noticed it happening, but the older I got, the less joy I felt. And before I knew it, no one had called me “grinny” or sunshine in a long time.
As I looked and smiled at those two girls, I remembered my childhood and it was like my life flashed before my eyes with memories from long ago. It was as if I was on a mission to figure out why I no longer had that kind of joy and when did it leave. It’s almost as if I had it one day and it was gone the next. As I reflected back on my life, I remembered the job promotions, the vacations, participating in friends’ weddings, and crying at the birth of their children. I remembered holidays with family and volunteering for organizations and causes. And although I never married, I dated and enjoyed my social life. As I reflected back, although my life was never perfect, it was full and beautiful. So, where did my joy go?
And then it hit me. Hard in the face. I knew the exact date joy left my soul. July 14, 2008. The day my mother passed. My mother. Not only the person who gave me life but the person I went to for everything. I’m not one of those people who say their parent was their best friend, she wasn’t my best friend – she was my mother. And a great one. She’s the one I called first for advice, when I had a problem, when I needed money, or when I had great news to share. We traveled together, she told me when I was being too sensitive, and she told me it was okay to dream. She told me she was proud of me. She told me she loved me, regardless of the poor choices I sometimes made in my life. She was my greatest cheerleader, but also the voice in my head reminding me to love and serve others always. When she left, I think I lost myself too. See, it wasn’t that I was so adventurous all those years, I was safe. I could take risks, make mistakes, and live my fullest life because I knew my mother would always be there to catch me if I fell. I knew I would still be loved, and she would probably even tell me I was better just for trying.
But when she died, my safety net was gone. I don’t think I even recognized it at first, but I stopped taking risks, didn’t do anything if I wasn’t 100% sure it wouldn’t lead to a mistake, and I slowly became less social, surrounding myself with only those people who were a part of my bubble. And without even realizing it, the joy left my soul. And it was in that instant that I decided that I wanted joy back. I wanted to take risks. I wanted to put myself back out there, unconcerned if I failed or if people didn’t agree. I wanted to laugh more. Smile more. Love more. The ironic thing is, my mother would not have appreciated who I had become. Oh, she would have still loved me and been proud of me, but I believe she loved that I laughed a lot. She loved that I was so passionate about my causes that I wouldn’t hesitate to argue my point to anyone at any time or make decisions based on that passion. She even wrote me a note many years ago that I now have framed, that encouraged me to never second-guess decisions I made, because “no matter how many buildings you leap from, I’m confident you will always land on your feet”. Wow. She knew what brought me joy. She knew that I needed causes, risks, and passion in my life. And she knew that because I needed those things, I would sometimes make mistakes, but those mistakes would only make me better; a better daughter, sister, and friend. It would make me a better Christian and human being. It would make me feel Alive.
This blog is a huge risk for me – opening up my heart for strangers to read, judge, and possibly criticize. However, for the first time in years, I feel alive. I feel joy. Losing someone you love is hard. Grief is no joke and the only way to get through it is to muddle through inch by inch, day by day. I have no magic words that will make it easier. But what I have come to realize is life is meant to be lived in joy. And those who have departed from us want nothing more than for us to be happy. If they wanted that for us when they were here on earth, why would it suddenly change after they are gone? We do a disservice to their memory by not living fully. Who I am now is because of my mother – her love, belief, and support for me. If I am less than that person, then I am giving that message to everyone I meet. I want people to see the person my mother raised and believed in because, in me, they will see her. And she was such a beautiful soul. And that is the same for you. You are a product of those you have lost and if you hide your joy, others won’t be able to get a glimpse of who they were or what you were able to become because of them. So skip with me down the hallway and claim your joy!