Lately, people I care deeply for have been going through harder times. They have their own grief or their own fights to see through.
I can almost hear their war cries in the mist. I’m not in it with them. It’s their storm to weather. All I can hope to be is a light in the night, a firefly shining its faint shimmer in the darkness. I’ve been down these roads myself often enough to know that I’m probably not even that. Not even a sparkle in the distance.
And that’s fine.
And that’s hard.
I’m fine with things being hard. I have been called masochistic before, because I don’t let pain derail me. Because I willingly seek situations that will be tough. I’ve felt ashamed because of that (thank you Freud and your labels!). But that inclination made me into who I am. Because of it I’ve explored depths that most people fear and spend lifetimes avoiding. Whole industries thrive on our preference for numbness over pain.
I’ve been fighting my own fights for decades. Ones that no one could see nor partake in. Taming my own dragons. Getting to know the Things That Lurk who live in my shadows.
I know how it is. The trance-like state of being enchanted by our own siren songs. Not that they’re lies or illusions. The monsters are real. Others can’t see them. They don’t hear the notes above the roaring ocean, they can’t make out the smirking face in the ember. Only we can.
I’ve rarely been the one waiting at the edge of the forest, nourishing the fire for them to warm their bones when they return. Hoping that they will return. That I won’t be forgotten in the midst of all the chaos, seen as unnecessary bagage, dead weight. That’s my ego screaming its fear of abandonment. I’d be fine. I’m trained in grief. I have said goodbye enough times to know the drill.
That’s not what I’m afraid of, though. I know how to deal with vanishing loved ones. I’m much more insecure about them coming back so changed by their fight that I don’t want them anymore. That doesn’t seem fair. For someone to come back home after their deep and dark journey, beaten down and newly scarred, only to find the lighthouse empty.
It’s the untold risk with change.
We hear the empowering stories of the changee: « as you change, you’ll find yourself wanting to ditch those relationships that don’t suit you anymore ». « People who don’t want you to change will fall off of your life, good for you, you don’t want friends who hold you to your old self! »
What about those people that you want to keep in your life?
What if they are the ones leaving?
Ah. More grief.
Imagine, you just went through hell and back. You come back, eager to find calm and peace and comfort in the arms of the people you hold dearest. You’ve been changed. You feel it and it’s permanent. They feel it, too. And who they are at that moment in their life doesn’t fit who you’ve become —who you needed to become.
That’s likely to shake your confidence in the process. « Is it worth all the inner growth if the cost is that much pain? » you’ll find yourself asking.
I’m afraid to be on the other side of that pain. Its cause. Worst of all I’m afraid that in order to avoid the pain, you’d want to revert the changes. That’s the most tragic thing in my eyes: to see someone deny their individuation for the sake of attachment figures they can’t let go of.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, exploring my fear rather than staying in the present.
Right now I’m adding logs to the fire for warmth to welcome your return. For the light to show you the way home in your night. One light amongst many. All your friends and lovers are tending to their own fires. A constellation of points for you to map out your surroundings when the dust settles.
Right now, I’m grounded. Anchored. Ready for your return. Patient. I actually enjoy the peacefulness. Silence and solitude as my joyful companions.
Holding space for you to exploit as you please.