GROWING UP

Hi ZonERrZz -

So I turned 30, and my Millenial snowflake tendencies were screaming at me to write something about it, to articulate my ground breaking thoughts around growing up. I had thoughts and opinions, sure, and the new big 3 I am flaunting sort of says “grown up”. But the attempts at putting it on a page felt phony, up until now. My 30th year has enrolled in the advanced course on human condition’s fragility, forcefully teaching me a thing or two as I held my mother’s hand during the last months of her life. 

Grief has been skinning me alive for a while, first by anticipation. A lot of medical words were thrown around and I sat hopeless through an implacable demonstration of how fallible our bodies are, shattering the illusion of control the wellness industry and anti ageing billionaire crusaders have given me so far. The relentless unravelling of the flesh also introduced me to a new grammar, where the future tense doesn’t exist. Or rather it does, but is always hypothetical. No “see you tomorrow” blurted out as some sort of knee jerk reaction anymore. 

Grief still skins me alive now. No matter where I look, the world constantly reveals the emptiness she left behind. Everywhere where I go, she isn’t there anymore. I suppose this brand new calibration of space - I can see both what is and what is no more - and time - me and mom existed now exclusively, until now was just me - paradoxically clarified a few things.

After all, it wasn’t so much about myself anymore

If you have been reading me for a few years, you'll know that I am no stranger to a deep existential inquiry. While I still consider all those times insightful, in retrospect, they were a bit indulgent and navel-gazy. I write this without any particular animosity or will to minimize the excruciating feeling of being lost I was harbouring then. It was vertiginous to wonder what I’d become, after I realized that I wouldn’t be the smartest, the prettiest and that the glitz & glamour of the life I was trying so hard to build might just never come. What could then make existence worthwhile if it was devoid of anything exceptional? I had to mourn some sort of adolescent fantasy I had set as the sole standard to give meaning to my passing through time. 

I did let go (I think), and did so like an adolescent would nurse their heart, broken for the first time. Yes, it involved listening to a lot of Frank Ocean on repeat, but it also fueled a quasi obsession for finding myself. I have tried, and to an extent, I am still trying to paint a satisfactory picture of who I’ll be when I grow up. One that, at the end of my life, would give me the comfortable insurance that it wasn’t all for nothing. I decided I needed to know myself better: journal, cry in talk therapy, travel around, pick up new hobbies and all the things Eat Pray Love has shown to be foolproof solutions to dig yourself out of an identity crisis. But growing up isn’t quite reinventing yourself as much as I thought it might be.

Despite the constant stream of tragic events that has been ruling my life for almost a year now, existence has continued to stretch me open, outwards. My insides have collapsed, torn apart by anger, ripped by all those tears, razor sharp with sadness. Many times over it felt like there was no way out of despair. And yet I kept functioning. After all, it wasn’t so much about myself anymore.

It was all there already

Since my mom got sicker, my attention has been focussed outwards, stuck in the tragedy waiting room. I was taking in the bad news one by one. I worried about what would happen next when I wasn’t stomaching the horrid changes that had already happened. That didn’t leave much space or energy to hold up any sort of front to the external world (or any biohacky morning routine). Some days, the last thing I wanted was to be seen, and, as a constant, I wasn’t concerned in the slightest with being the best version of myself. By default, I turned my frustration of having no control over the situation into self hatred. And yet. Whether I wanted to or not, people saw me, helped, showed up. I had to accept to sometimes be fully taken care of. For the first time since I was a child I experienced the kind of intimacy I was never able to create for myself. I managed to take leaps in how I connected to people on the backdrop of the pile of stinking shit that my life had become. The level of care and attention I received came as a strong middle finger to any self improvement tactic I thought I needed to feel better. It was all there already. A very pop culture way of putting it would be to refer to Laurie’s final monologue in the last season of the White Lotus. Just like her I had been persuaded (and will soon forget my own wisdom so I’ll go back to the rat race not to worry) that meaning was created by career, by finding a purpose, by becoming who you are supposed to become. When it came to facing a true life or death situation, none of those things offered solace. All that time I’d spent with my friends was the only meaning that propelled me forward, aka got me out of bed in the morning. 

I was of the trope that didn’t really understand that being present when a loved one struggles is most of the help one can provide. I certainly didn’t think it was enough when I couldn’t get my mother, whose nerve endings had been hijacked by chemo, to eat any of the food I tried to cook. I thought there was “good” presence, broad shouldered and reassuring. I was failing the assignment when I couldn't bring myself to not cry loudly when I tucked her in her palliative care bed. Call it “savior complex” if you want. 

It only recently struck me that I experienced firsthand plain healing presence. My friends showed up and stayed around, held my hand, said nothing because there was nothing to say. They were just brave enough to meet me in the dark place and sit in silence. There is definitely real importance in taking responsibility for equipping yourself to live to the fullest. But if you honestly take in all life brings, including the inherent tragedy baked into this whole experience, the only tangible achievement that matters when shit hits the fan is to be surrounded with people who allow you to continue living. 

Needless to say that I haven’t felt in control or powerful in a while. If anything, I also had a masterclass in surrender. While I found it deeply uncomfortable, it also showed me first hand how capable I could be. I was brought to my knees, but I never fully collapsed. To my absolute surprise, it seemed that all the years of life didn’t solely mean that I was due a Botox appointment, but also that I had set up an ecosystem that ensured I could handle extremely difficult situations. Tragedy gave me a measure of the extent to which I could do life. My friends picked me up when I was really down. I had a footing and financial situation that enabled me to show up how I wanted for my family. I had coping mechanisms that were not only drinking myself into oblivion. I had practical skills that enabled me to help. Each hurdle I faced this year kept on reminding me that in the midst of chaos, I was so grateful this hardship didn’t happen 10 years ago. I went through progressive loss, I still contend with a mountain of sadness but I haven’t obliterated what is outside myself. Paradoxically, the most mature thing I have done so far was to give myself the tools to still be looking outwards.

I think that is what adult love is, all encompassing selfless curiosity

This has been even more vertiginous than my adolescent fall from grace: looking at the world without wondering how it looks back at me (I have a masters degree in narcissism and am also a woman so I hadn’t really done that in a while). Firstly because it felt too painful to calculate how asking for help would make people see me. I was so out of character, but I needed said help. To bite the bullet, I just asked, received, and forced myself not to think too much (spoiler: I failed many times and apologized for most meltdowns). Secondly, I only truly rested when I got curious about what was around. For shits and giggle, no agenda, like a five year old earnestly asking if a blade of grass would grow into a tree. I took an interest in people, the news, nature surrounding my parents’ place, the tiles of the kitchen and other dumb and not so dumb stuff. Not because I was worried about building knowledge for a personal brand, or to make me look smart. I did it simply to remember that life was still happening everywhere else. I could tangibly access it when my insides were collapsing. 

I think that is what adult love is, all encompassing selfless curiosity. Completely turning towards something else than yourself, and realizing in the process that you are as worthy to being turned towards as all the other things. This idea is nothing new really. Call it loving God, or path to enlightenment if you are a Buddhist. It’s quite a trip to actually get to experience it. Pure curiosity has taught me so far that all I looked lovingly at was infinitely complex (you only realize it only when you look at it long enough), which mirrors back our fundamental failure at fully grasping anything ever. We simply don’t have enough time. Not as in “we could if we were more efficient” but as in “we just can’t because it would take an infinite amount of years”. Bound by the limitation of our five senses, there is only so deep we can go when it comes to explaining away stuff. A good old slice of the human condition to keep you humble you know.  It is most potent with interpersonal relationships. Deepest intimacy comes from brave, authentic expression of one’s inner world, knowing that you’ll never be able to predict the receiver’s response. 

I got it most twisted because I thought it was a grown up point of view

Most importantly, letting go of any certainty that I would ever fully “get” anything or anyone weirdly fueled my capacity for hope. A large part of how we operate as a collective and in our personal lives relies on calculating risk. I personally have a passion for predicting, evaluating, setting expectations, and hedging. Anything I can quantify gives me the impression that I can control the outcome. That comes with being a cynic: expect the worst constantly, trust no one but the probabilities. But cynicism is a childish response to the human condition. It is trying to soften the blow and avoid catastrophe because “you saw it coming”. By falsely protecting yourself from disappointment you give yourself the impression that you can side step tragedies. 

I got it most twisted because I thought it was a grown up point of view. One had to be realistic, and it took guts to face the facts. What I am trying to articulate here (in a very wobbly way, I’ll give you that) is that, it is one thing to know the probabilities, and it is another to still choose hope. It’s transgressive because it doesn’t make sense. But when you take into account as stated earlier that we really cannot fully make sense of anything, then when are we ever being realistic? It was the biggest lesson my Mom passed on to me over the last months. She never stopped hoping, despite the bad news, the fucked up statistics. She still turned towards life. It didn’t save her, but choosing to be realistic wouldn’t have saved her either. I think that kind of courage is innate. It comes with true acceptance of the absolute fragility of the human condition - the tragedy and miracle machine that is our fundamental limitation. It’s the embodiment of hope. In her last months, my mom taught me how you become a true adult by showing me the value of that humble transgression. I can only dream to be half as accomplished, wise and strong as she was. In feeling her absence everywhere, I am constantly reminded to turn towards what still is in front of me before it’s gone. I am lucky enough that my mom continues to push me to live fiercely, like a proper adult, even more now that she is gone.

Mad love