Growth has No Calories

I’m changing my three year old son’s diaper this morning and attempting to reason with him – my first mistake. Reasoning with a 3 year old is like trying to find your lost remote 4 minutes before the season finale live on tv. You’re frantic, your basically talking to yourself, and maybe sweating a little bit. It’s fascinating to think that in my life time (28.5 years) there was a time that we just had to watch what was on tv – no DVR, no Netflix, no On-Demand. Anyway, that’s a whole other discussion. So, I’m explaining to my strong willed, lovable, yet slightly high maintenance child that we need to get him potty trained so he can go to school and meet new friends. I tell him, “you’re growing up and it’s okay to go potty on the potty like a big boy.” He says, “I want to wear a diaper, I’m not gonna grow.” He repeats, “I’m not gonna grow!” a few more times.

I’m taking in these little words, they are seeping into my brain and I begin to feel them in my heart. It’s an achy feeling, they are so heavy for me. I think, yea, I get it. I don’t want to grow, but what option do we have?

Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional.

Walt Disney

I believe growth can be defined in a number of ways, we can see physical growth, psychological growth, emotional growth, behavior growth. We mature over time in our thinking, how we communicate and handle our emotions, and how we act. So as I’m hugging my boy after a successful diaper change I think of the small tiny little human he was, cooing and poo-ing, and the strong, brave, vibrant, and kind boy that he is today. I think of the life he has endured through COVID, through the passing of his Papa (my dad), and through his every day experiences. He’s growing whether he likes it or not.

Here’s the kicker, so am I. Growing up in the conventional sense of being more mature may be optional. But growth isn’t. Changing overtime isn’t optional, we adapt, we evolve – if we don’t, we die, right? When I got married and settled in to have kids, I think a part of me truly believed my identity was “Being Married and Having Kids” (if that makes any kind of sense). I took on the role of wife and mom by checking the boxes. Not only checking the boxes, but believing that I had to fit inside those stereotypical boxes. My identity became my accomplishments. It’s fun to play the role, but I was completely losing touch with myself. I was longing for freedom and peace, the good ol’ days when life was simpler – little moments where I could listen to All Time Low or Eminem without feeling guilty about the little ears in the backseat. I was spiraling.

Enter Grief. Two different phases of it. Dad’s stroke occurred 6 months ago. He lay in a hospital bed after having brain surgery; we were stunned with this radical change in our lives. Our knowledge of strokes, the anatomy of the brain, and the medical profession expanded in a matter of days and none of us had any control over it. I became “someone who had been affected by a family member having a stroke”, a new a completely unwanted checked box. The grief (phase 1) that overwhelmed me was the longing of our old life, of the good times, and the fear of what the future would look like. Would he walk or talk again? What would my boys think? What was my mom going to do for a job? There were so many unanswered questions. While the world was also spiraling out of control with COVID and the BLM movement was making enormous strides, I was facing a new reality. Growth was eminent in every aspect of my life. I saw people become more vulnerable on their social posts, I felt a strong conviction of a privilege I had just become accustomed to, I reconnected with old friends to check in on them and their families, and I started working out for fear of my health. I was slowly peeling back the labels from these checked boxes that made up my identity until I was left with just me.

As the virtual school year ended, I had time at home to sit with myself (while the kids napped or visited grandma and Pop Pop) and began to find joy in the things I actually enjoyed doing. I started writing, reading, and cooking, I reorganized my house, I painted my kitchen cabinets. My bio grew from “mom and wife” to “a mom of two who likes to…”. I was gaining confidence in myself, I had lost 20 pounds, I was establishing a routine with my boys, and I was still making time for me and my husband. I didn’t know at the time, but this growth I was harnessing was necessary to get through my greatest heartache.

In the midst of this reconnection with myself, my dad was making some progress in rehab, and then his progress plateaued. He passed and I just silenced myself. I muted everything I had worked to uncover. My “checked box life” (grief phase 2) came back just to get through the day and not deal with my feelings. I stopped publishing my writing, I stopped reading, and my workouts came to a halt. Another checked box, “losing a parent.” I felt alone, very fragile, and unseen. No one wants to talk about grief (this is my first experience with it, so I wasn’t sure how to handle it). The question, “Hey, how are you doing?” didn’t have an easy answer, but I would give one regardless of how I felt. It is easier that way, until it’s not.

A recent conversation with my therapist lead me to a gut wrenching revelation. I’m unseen or alone because I don’t tell people how I really am. Conversations over the phone or through text played out in my head, but they just didn’t seem fulfilling enough. So, where and when did I feel like my voice was being heard? The answer, my published writing. There’s something cathartic about posting a blog where I can be vulnerable and it can be read by literally anyone. There’s the initial relief of getting it out and then the thrill from reading my reader’s responses.

Recently, I’ve felt the haze of the “checked box life” begin to fade. I’m longing to get back to fueling myself and filling my days with the things I love to do. Walks with the boys, playing outside, reading, writing and more. Not every day is successful, but I’m learning that it takes time. There’s so much to endure still from the passing of my dad. We will have so many difficult moments to overcome, it’s going to be so hard for my family and I. What I can take comfort in is knowing that my growth, triggered by grief and hardships that were completely out of my control, is going to help me get through the hardest days. So what would I tell my boy who “isn’t gonna grow?” Whether in inches or in confidence, we will grow together.

Till next time..