This has been a season of tremendous loss for me. Death, death, death death death. It kicked off in October when Cosmo, my longtime rabbit companion, died at 9 years old. 

Two weeks ago, my maternal grandmother “Gaga” died. She was 102.

We had a special relationship. She was my only grandparent. I was her first grandchild and her only daughter’s only child. That gave me a head-start in the specialness department. 

I think we understood each other on a deeper level than other members of our family understood us. 

I’m not close with the rest of my family. Her death marks a whole life I’m leaving behind.

We played cards, watched game shows and went to brunch at Sizzler. We sat on the couch and just held hands. We fantasized about taking a road trip down to Florida to find out how her secret lover passed away. When I was in college, she told me I was her best friend.

I don’t know if I’d be alive without her. (Obviously, she had to have my mom for me to exist.) But she was a source of unconditional love that I didn’t feel anywhere else. 

I remember one very low night in high school when I considered running away, hoping to walk out into the road and get hit by a car. I thought of her, and I stayed. 

My mom denied my request for therapy, but Gaga stood up for me and made sure it happened.

When I was a baby, I had a big, nasty black scab over my belly button (cough, mother wound, cough). She nursed it until it healed.

I love her so much.

I am also breaking up with my partner, moving everything I own out of the home we built together in Los Angeles, and taking it to Mexico. Leaving another life behind. 

He was my family and my home for the last year and a half, while I figured out how to make the jump. When we visited our families on the east coast, he helped me make peace with my past. When Cosmo died, he helped me bury him. He played the piano in our backyard while I sobbed over his body, circled with crystals. I watched the incense burn, carrying his soul off in billowing smoke. 

It’s been a lot of death. But death makes room for new life.

There is a bright, warm love on the other side of this tunnel. And the creatures that got me here mean everything.

It’s strange to love them so much and have to let them go. There’s a lot to grieve. So I wrote a poem.

Their graves mark the places 

I no longer go.

The people and spaces 

that are no longer home.

Now I’m a traveler, 

my shell on my back.

Finding love along the way, 

no more love-plated traps.

Walking alone, 

I really, really miss them.

But I trust my heart, 

and the steps it has taken.

I didn’t think this was how it would be. 

It looked so different at the start.

But I’ve come a long way. 

Now I can’t see back that far.

Sometimes it’s too hard

to carry this load.

So I put it all down,

and just lie in the road.

That’s why I need them,

I can’t do it alone.

But that’s when they’re with me,

when I just let go.

Yesterday, my partner left Mexico and went back to our home in LA. It triggered a big wave of grief.

I couldn’t get around it; I was just sad. 

All I wanted was someone to be there while I cried and just listen, without expectations. I’m a literal professional at doing this for other people. But…for myself? A much harder ask.

To be there at the most basic level. With gentle, loving presence, for as long as it took. To hold myself, to tell myself it was okay, to let myself cry, then know when it was time to pick myself up and get a glass of water.

I wanted mothering.

A lot of us don’t have great models of this. So how do we give it to ourselves, let alone even know we need it?

We don’t always know when we’re sad, or mad, or hungry, or need a break. We go into our brains and try to think our way into meeting a physical need. 

We may know we’re feeling off, out of sync, rushing, busying ourselves, resisting things we know are good for us, or judging others. These are all good signs that we’re missing something. We just don’t necessarily know what.

But Mom does. And she swoops in and takes over. “You’re hungry.” “It’s time for a bath.” “Let’s go for a walk.”

The first thing I needed yesterday was just a place that it was okay to cry, or not cry, or do whatever. 

A big part of mothering ourselves is BEING that safe, open environment. 

Maybe we learned that we weren’t supposed to have certain feelings. They weren’t appropriate or necessary; they didn’t belong or were too much. Maybe we were punished or rejected or distracted when we cried.

Whatever it is, we tend to repeat this with ourselves. We can only love ourselves the best we know how. But there’s a workaround hidden in our imagination. We can ask ourselves, “what would the most loving person do?” (the agnostic’s What Would Jesus Do)

Would the most loving person criticize me for being sad or critique the way I’m showing it? Would they rush me or roll their eyes? No. They’d be patient. They’d be understanding. They’d be protective.

Each time I was able to find that energy and apply it toward myself, I would soften, let out a few more tears, and breathe a little easier. 

After each wave, I’d say, “okay, what do we need now?” and then wait, or make gentle suggestions and listen for the tiniest signal of what might feel good. 

Learning to mother ourselves isn’t easy. It’s extremely humbling. And we’re not going to be perfect at it. But the tender little being inside that needs our love really appreciates when we try.