It is not easy to step into the river of change and flow with it. I wish I could say that my steps into life as a parent have been easy, but I swear my daughter knows how to climb and run better than I know how to toddle down this path. Nothing, no one, could have prepared me for the ego death I’ve been experiencing over the last two years. The solar system of my previous life collapsed – planets, desires, dreams, and hopes merging, melting, with a new star rising. New planets form new orbits, and I am lost in a universe I barely recognize, yet it’s supposed to be my own. After all, I’m still in it – or am I? Where have my adventures gone? When was the last time I managed to go climbing?
I rush home from work, ignoring the hundredth phone call from Timo, and still wearing my left shoe, I find myself chasing my toddler into the bedroom – failing to stop her from spilling her fruit juice on the rocking chair. The phone no longer rings as I clean up the mess. I look up to see what she’s up to next, only to find her climbing the balcony fence. I don’t even know how to explain to Timo why I’m not answering the phone. The truth is something between being the most overwhelmed I’ve ever been – simply unable to press a button for fear that those two and a half seconds might mean another disaster in the living room – and wishing for nothing more than a quiet hour to chat with a friend I care deeply about. Wishing that’s what I could offer. Not answering, because I can’t have my dream scenario. Feeling silly, guilty –
Then I see Nea throwing her toys off the balcony, and I forget about the phone call again until Timo tries calling two weeks later. Rinse and repeat. The river of change has swept me up, and I’ve long since given up pretending I have any chance of staying in control. Sometimes I wonder if this is all life will ever be from now on. And then I remember the day I crossed from Finland into Norway on my bike ride to the Nordkapp. I remember the visceral fear of not knowing whether I could go on, if I would ever reach my goal, of how trapped I felt in that moment. I remember calling my best friend at the time, listening to her as she said, “Cry it all out. You’re scared, and that’s okay. Feel the terror, and then move on. Move forward. The only way out of this is to go on.”
I expected to let go of who I was when I learned Nea was on her way, and the idea terrified me. I was angry, in denial, and overcome with grief. I raged against what I thought my role would be, dictated by a society that loves in a way I can’t agree with. Where our love is hidden away in the hours of darkness – the evenings, the mornings, the phone calls during lunch hours – the quick snatches of meeting friends for climbing or a coffee date here and there. How am I supposed to love a growing human within that space and still love myself? Still create a life I’m happy with, too? How do I balance her growing Self with mine?
The space we give to love is inadequate. Instead of placing it at the center, we carve out space for it as best we can, given the circumstances: somewhere on the periphery. And yet its magnetic pull is undeniable. We may try to run, we may try to avoid, shield ourselves, tell ourselves stories that we’re not meant for it, pretend we’re little machines who feel nothing –
And then love comes and reminds us that none of those stories need to be true, if only we have the courage to lean in and be with it.
I could never have been prepared for what it takes, what it means, to be tethered symbiotically to another human for over two years. I may have cut the umbilical cord between us myself, but the lines between Nea and me remain steadfastly blurred. Her needs have become mine, and though I’ve been in awe of watching my capacity to hold another human’s emotions grow, I wonder where my own needs have gone. Forget solo adventures and regular climbing training – my needs have returned to their most basic state: Sleep. Eat. Love.
Like on any good adventure, there’s never enough of the first two. And just like on any good adventure, love abounds.
It’s been fascinating to watch it bloom in the wake of this change. In myself, in the friends and family I reach out to when I’m at the absolute end of my tether – watching them step up and buffer me with their love. Watching them gather around my daughter, shielding her from the storm of life with the joy and care they share. Hearing the stories of her cackling laugh after my friend Anni takes her to the water playground, hearing her call my friends – people she accepts as caregivers – “Mama,” seeing her giant smile when she looks at pictures of the grandparents who care for her –
It makes my heart sing. The same heart that’s expanded with every shattering –
Still here, still beating, still loving. In spite of it all, alongside it all.
It reminds me of all the times I was at the end of my tether on my adventures. When the people in the places I passed through stepped up and carried me through. When I knocked on doors, heart pounding, asking to be given water, and was given dinner, a story, and a bed instead. I felt love then. I feel it now. And every time I turn towards others, hands outstretched, asking for connection, my heart pounds just as much as it did then. The question may have changed. “Will you give me water?” has turned into: “Will you help me care for myself and my child?” But the answers have not. Some say no. Most say yes – come in, come rest, come and share in the care we have for you. They ask for nothing, and leave me praying that I am able to pass their love on when it is my turn to give water.
Recognizing that I was not alone in the world then is what saves me now.
The strength it takes to be with another human is enough to overwhelm even the most centered of us. It doesn’t need to be a baby we raise, it doesn’t even have to be another human – anytime we are called to love can feel overwhelming, even when that person is ourselves. Loving ourselves enough to ask for help, shaking hand outstretched, at the end of our tether, takes courage. Taking that outstretched hand with care, with intention, and opening ourselves up to what may follow takes courage.
Setting out on an adventure always does.
May you meet love with courage on yours.
PS: Literally after finishing the last edit on this text, Timo texted me, as if he could sense something was up. It wasn’t the perfect moment, but I called him back anyway. And it may not have been the quiet, perfect moment I’d dreamed of. But it was only a carton of milk that was spilled on the balcony amidst shrieks of joy (Nea) and distress (me). Absolutely worth it for a chat with Timo again.