Family. Real. Raw. Broken. Beautiful.
Every single bit of that exhaustion is real, and cumulative, and palpable. If it were solely a personal exhaustion, I could believe that it would dissipate with more sleep or better self care. But it’s not just a personal exhaustion. It’s a societal exhaustion and I have a feeling it’s effects will linger in all of us long into whatever a post-pandemic life looks like.
In week 32 of our schools being physically closed, the “want” in our family to be back on campus has to be secondary to the critical “need” for in person instruction for a small group of students. We can’t always get what we want, but I am deeply happy to see other kids getting what they truly need.
Mourning may be solitary, but a celebration of life needs community.
On this day 15 years ago there was so much I did not know. I certainly didn’t imagine that our every day would include my child living (thriving) with mental illness. And that means that somewhere out there this evening are other mothers, in other hospitals, waiting for their own baby to join the world – and evidence shows that approximately 20% of those unborn children will likely have a diagnosable mental illness at some point in their lives.
I came across a poem this morning that was originally written in 2016 by the poet Maggie Smith. Good Bones gets to the core of the restlessness tied to trying to hold space for hope, while raising kids in a world that feels upside down. So pretty much me, right now…
If this were an actual novel, I would have thrown it across the room in disgust several chapters back. But this is real life (real absurd life), so I’m stuck waiting for the next plot twist while trying to hold out hope for something redemptive to happen.
We're All A Little Broken 