Loss comes in so many forms.
Death. Divorce. Breakups. Friendships. Animals you love more than people. Money. Natural disasters that wipe out everything you built and the things that held sentimental value, you can never replace. One bad decision, and suddenly years of hard-earned work are gone.
Health. One day you’re running ten miles; the next, your body turns on you.
Mental health. One moment you’re stable, the next you’re reminding yourself to take your Lexapro so you can live life “normally,” like the version of you who didn’t need it.
And time.
It’s the oldest story in the world:
One day you’re seventeen and planning for someday…
And then quietly, without ever really noticing, someday is today.
Then someday is yesterday.
And this is your life.
We take so much for granted until it’s gone.
We don’t realize what we’re holding until our hands are empty.
Loss changes you. Sometimes forever. It changes identity. The consequences are real. Some people reinvent themselves. Others never fully return.
I’ve lost a lot.
I lost my dad to COVID in April 2020. Losing him was my biggest fear. He was much older than my mom, so I always knew he wouldn’t be around for the things she would be. I just never knew when or how. I remember noticing the small signs of aging: forgetting words, being a little off balance, those Entenmann’s donuts finally catching up to him, but I refused to dwell on them. Even when you expect it, you’re never prepared.
Eighty-one. Never hospitalized. Then came a gallbladder infection. A hospital stay we thought would be routine. Surgery. Recovery. Home.
Instead, COVID hit. He caught it in the hospital. The longest and hardest fourteen days of my life. What haunted me most was the thought of him dying alone, with no one by his side, carrying the quiet fear of knowing you’re going to die. He was always there for me. And I wasn’t allowed to be there for him.
I’ve lost phones, jewelry, keys, and credit cards. Minor inconveniences, in comparison. But in that brief moment, it felt like the world was ending.
Weight. Unfortunately, that one came back.
I’ve lost a job that left me dipping into my savings and finally taught me what a budget was - ugh.
My freedom. Temporarily. A few bad choices will do that.
I’ve lost my sanity over spilled milk and over things that actually mattered.
I’ve lost boyfriends and friends, and that loss cuts deeper than people admit.
Items that belonged to my parents. A whole fucking ordeal.
A pet, after spending thousands trying to keep her alive for six weeks.
I’ve lost my identity.
I’m grieving the girl I used to be while trying to find my way forward as someone new.
Loss doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it shows up quietly. Sometimes it stacks. Sometimes it doesn’t give you time to catch your breath before the next thing is gone. And sometimes you don’t realize you’re breaking until you already have.
One day, you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t have time to do all the things you want to do.
So do it while you can.
Be intentional. Think before you act. Hug the people you love, because forever can disappear without warning. Be grateful for today, and when it’s hard, try to find one small thing.
And the things you can’t control, those will take what they want, whether you’re ready or not.
Loss stripped things down for me. It taught me what matters. It changed my values, my priorities, who and what I tolerate, where my time and energy go, and my choices.
Most things are replaceable.
People aren’t.
Neither are our pets. And some choices can’t be undone.
-Psychologist Interrupted
"sometimes you don’t realize you’re breaking until you already have"
I know this truth all too well. I'm sorry you've been there as well. Actually, a lot of this article reminds me of myself.
When I became a mother so many people urged me to appreciate every moment because, "the days are long but the years are short". The more I look back on life from my melodramatic perch in middle age, the more I think that's just life. Days take on the quality of years, especially when they bleed together and become "a season of life". We forget seasons end, even the most prized ones.
Before you know it you're 41, looking back on your strange journey of a life, mourning things like you're in your eighties.
That's when I tell myself to snap out of it because some day I really will be, God willing, in my seventies or eighties thinking how I never appreciated middle age.
(Apologies, I have a tendency to ramble!)
I'm either living as a caterpillar, or in the chrysalis of my own making, otherwise known as the cooker, which can last for years, until some butterfly version of myself emerges. That calm before the "next" storm, ie, visit to the chrysalis, a nest where I can "melt down" with a modicum of sanity, while figuring out how to resurface, yet again. When the kaka hits the fan I reframe as best possible :-)