If I were 50...

I think I’ve been unknowingly, unwittingly been holding out hope for something that may be unattainable for me. Today, while walking across Creighton campus and reflecting on my time here, I realized that I’ve had this delusion: the belief that someday, transitions will be easier for me. I’ve always expected that I would get better at change with age and experience. Kind of like how you get better at cooking, or music, or procrastinating, or wiping your ass, or most anything that you do a lot. 

I have had this absurd image of myself as a 50-something, placidly moving from one life experience to the next, graciously accepting of the ebb and flow of life. It’s all very Zen. (In the image I also have salt-and-pepper hair and am wearing some kind of flowy skirt. I might be high.) It’s as if somehow I magically become a completely different person with a drastically altered personality over the next 20 years.

Let’s take this apart, though, shall we? Has anyone ever, ever, described me as “placid?” Have I ever worn a flowy skirt? Would I ever consider allowing gray hairs to show when I’m in my 50s? And, perhaps most importantly, have I ever moved on easily? No, no, probably not, and no.

The purpose that this fantasy serves is the wish for a pain-free existence. I hate the way it feels when I have to say goodbye. I get angry with myself for letting myself hurt, for not protecting myself better. Yet, when I take a step back from the self-criticism, I remember that pain is just part of life. It’s normal, everyone feels it. And in my heart of hearts, I know that if I stop feeling hurt and sadness that something has fundamentally gone very wrong within me. I have detached. I have given up.  

Today I realized that I need to let go of this future fantasy me and just accept myself for who I am: a person who becomes emotionally involved in what she does. That means that when I start something, I’m all in. I soak into the pores of the project; I fill all of the cracks and crevices with love and energy.  The rewards are numerous: I’m enthusiastic, I’m motivated. I have fun. People can tell that I care. The nasty underbelly of it all is that when whatever it is that I’m doing comes to an end, I feel a bit bereft. It’s hard to extricate myself when I’ve become so emotionally entangled. Granted, the detangling can be done…but the process stings.

Carl Rogers, one of the most influential psychologists ever (and a personal favorite of mine), is quoted as saying “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” So that person who I am, the Me who joyfully invests and who feels a lot of angst when something ends ….I’m going to learn to love her, rather than scorn her. I’ll try to move into the pain and accept it, rather than berate myself when I feel it. And I’ll replace my old delusional image of pseudo-hippie future me with a more realistic one: 50-something, with reddish-brownish hair (because when I go gray, I’m going to add red. You just wait), clad in jeans, energetic, and engaged with what she’s undertaken. Full of all kinds of emotion and probably telling someone about it. Full of hope. Fully me.

How I lost a brother and gained a sister in one day

The most poignant moments of my life sneak up on me. Granted, some of them I saw coming: when I married my Jebbo, when I held each of my babies for the first time. I imagined these would be unforgettable, life-altering moments, and they were. But more often than not, the emotions that drive the snapshot images that form the tapestry of my life come in a rush and knock me on my ass. It feels a lot like being punched in the gut.

I got metaphorically punched right in the gizzard last Saturday. My brother got married. I would have to be an idiot, or really un-self-aware, to imagine that this day would pass without any moments that I will remember for the rest of my life. So, I knew it was going to be an emotional day. The when of it, though, was a surprise, as it often is to me. I was in line to walk down the aisle. Right up to that point, it had been a hell of a hectic day. My existence had been consumed with the management of hair, clothes, everyone being at the right place at the right time, and attempts at gracefully maneuvering the egos and bodily functions of two small kids in formal attire (have you ever tried to help a coiffed and gowned [and stubborn] flower girl go pee?). After Evie disappeared  (for the umpteenth time) and required a cursory search party, I had a memorable fantasy about propping my feet up and downing Morgan ‘n’ diets until smiling came easy again.

Yet as the service started, all the noise in my head stopped. I stopped, and for the first time looked, really looked, around me. And who I saw was my mother. She was striking in her mother-of-the-groom regalia; that much I had already seen. Now, though, I saw through all of the formality and fuss and saw her fragility. Her pride, her tears, the bittersweetness of seeing her son happy yet realizing that he has really grown up. I saw my dad, farmer-gone-debonair in his tux and cufflinks, his eyes glistening and red-rimmed as he waited with Mom. For a man I have never seen cry, he seemed markedly unabashed about wearing his heart on his sleeve. The therapist in me cheered while the little girl in me wanted to comfort her daddy. I left my place in line to hug both of them. Cue my own tears, the cup of emotion finally runneth over.

That’s when I got my sock in the gut: “my little brother is getting married.” In a flash I remembered him as a guileless toddler, following me around the house because I held his tractors captive; as the little guy on the elementary playground that I felt compelled to look out for at recess; as a teen stumbling drunk and breaking Mom’s lamp, spurring a secret between he and I that wouldn’t leak for almost 10 years. As a young man leaving home, moving into his first apartment and trying to find his way in life. As the brother who had grown to be one of my closest friends. He was no longer a child in any way. He hasn’t been for a long time, but this moment cinched it in my mind. And just for the briefest of seconds, I felt a pang of loss. Our past is gone. Our little Michl family of four is no more.

In almost the same breath, I realized all I was about to gain. I stood at the back of the church, doors to the sanctuary thrown open, music changing to organ. It was my turn to walk down towards that nervous and joyful man at the altar, my brother. Before I started I looked back and saw Abby. She was already starting to cry as she clutched her father’s arm. My heart squeezed when I looked at her, and I remembered that already, I love her like a sister. I want her to be in my family. I am happy to say goodbye to the past if it means that she will be a part of our future.

And this is the snapshot image that will remain when I look back on the day. I’ll remember other things, like Evie crawling under a pew and screaming during the ceremony, like the best man’s speech (which was another of those “sock me in the gut” moments, but that’s a story for another day), like losing and serendipitously finding my sunglasses, like eating a Skittle that I thought was a Reese’s Pieces (and this, my friends, is not a good surprise if you’re me). It was a day filled with laughter and tears, dirty jokes and cocktails, family and friends. It was an honor to be a part of it. Though I did have to let go of my “baby” brother, I got him back as a peer and friend, and I also got a sister out of the deal. I am so freaking happy about the whole damn thing that I can barely wipe the cheesy smile off of my face every time I think about it. Cheers, once again, to Nate and Abby!!