Personal Essay

I Will Not Live in Fear of the Break

Practicing the art of embracing the precious scars.

My emotions swirl like a tidepool. Being here, in this house where we lived for so long, makes me feel like avoidance is the answer. I know it isn’t; at least not long-term.

But everywhere I turn a memory floods. I am at once furious and filled with gratitude because I have forgotten so many of the memories. I want to carry them all at once, in my arms like a beloved doll, close to my chest and smell of times long past. But now, it’s as if I’m allowing memories to be placed for me, brought up, and given to me with no attachment of my own.

I am fearful that when the time comes, as it did for Mom, I will not be able to remember the substantial moments. I feel my heart expanding, pulling in all directions — filling and draining, in and out. This is panic. I drop my arms, and the proverbial doll crashes to the floor and shatters.

“I want in.”

I hear her voice as loud as a crash in the night. She used to repeat this phrase, especially toward the end. It hurt and weighed like a millstone on my neck, stopping my own words in my throat each time. It was her way of ensuring we knew her wishes, her heart, and her love would be invested in our stories, no matter how much longer she breathed on earth. I’m sure I nodded because the tears slipped down my cheeks and passed my forced smile. Including the absence did not make sense at the time.

But now, anywhere I look, I see. You are in, Mom. You’ve made it into every inch, whether I like it or not. And I do. Like it, I mean. It’s just that my face keeps leaking and sometimes I am overwhelmed by the look of confusion and panic and codependency on the faces of people still here. They can’t handle my tears, but that’s okay. You taught me how to handle them for myself; to carry them openhanded with the generous expectation that my vulnerability and honest life would break someone else open, too.

This is not a fixable thing. Nor does it need stopping or repair. Sometimes a shattered bowl deserves kintsukuroi, and sometimes you throw away the shards. No need to remain afraid of what we might lose, for the richness remains and the tears cleanse.

I will not live in fear of the break, for I know what it means to be restored.

Originally published in 2016; edited for republishing.

Mandy Capehart is a certified grief and life coach, and creator of The Restorative Grief Project. The Restorative Grief Project is an online community focusing on one another’s stories and new methodologies for grief, creating a safe environment for our souls to heal and our spirits to be revived. To join for free, visit www.MandyCapehart.com/grief or follow along with weekly columns on Ask A Grief Coach! She thinks she is pretty funny; the jury is still out.