I have had times where a certain age was expected to bring a certain clarity, like you speak of in this article.
But while you were turning 44, my friend was dying of cancer at 39. She passed yesterday, and also like you said, the day came and went. We grieve, we learn, and life still goes on.
She won't make it to 42, your lucky number, nor 44. She's forever 39 and yet, she seemed to find immense clarity with death looming - that you get one precious life, and she used what time she had left to embrace every wish, hope, dream, expression that she could.
Perhaps what's missing for you, based on how you wrote this article alone, is that life consistently doesn't sound like it's enough. You sound like you're in searching mode, and you're starting over. While my friend, she'll never get to begin again.
This isn't to take away from your experience, I'm glad you shared it. It's my reaction to what you wrote in a state of grief, and maybe the universe speaking through me to you as a reminder that we are so lucky to be able to start anew with each birthday. Every age is lucky, if you look at it that way.
Would you still feel like something is missing if you knew *this birthday* was your last?
Oh Raven… my heart is hurting for you so much. I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your friend. I wish I could give you a big hug because I know the grief you are experiencing and it’s suffocating. I, too, lost my best friend from cancer 15 years ago. This kind of loss yields grief that will constantly be in the background… it will sneak up when you least expect it… even years later I still have moments where I break down. (It happened just last week actually due to my sister telling me about her friend going through chemo.) My friend, Loren, was so young and beautiful and kind and one of the most pure hearts I’ve known. She was one of my first friends in my 20s to show me what a true friendship looked like. She was a pre-k teacher and was adored by her students. She was truly epic… and forever 27.
Her untimely passing has stayed with me in such a way over the years that it’s a constant reminder for me to make the most of my life. Appreciate every moment. Literally live like I don’t have another birthday. The perspective of losing a loved one is not something I would wish on anyone, but when you experience it… you’re in a very exclusive club. Especially losing a friend to cancer because it takes everything from them slowly. You see your friend fight so hard only to fade into a version of herself that is startling to witness. Through this… you start to see how much you took for granted. Your ability to walk across the room. The fact that you get to make plans for next year. One of my favorite moments of perspective Loren gave me was when I developed Melasma on my face… she had just learned her cancer came back a few months before and I was at her house for the day, getting ready to go to dinner with her. I was emotional about how I looked so different… how these spots were hideous… through tears I shared my pain and self-pity and she listened with sympathy. At the end, she smiled softly and simply said… “At least you don’t have cancer.” And, that hit me HARD and straightened me right up. I still have melasma, but I don’t care. I see it now and think of her. I see it and it reminds me of how lucky I am.
Despite this gift of awareness of the brevity of life, I don’t think it takes away from the confusion that some stages of life can present. My post wasn’t about expecting things to be a certain way BECAUSE I’m 44, but more so about being ready for clarity now… waiting for magic to happen now… waiting for something to click for me now. I’m impatient. (But I haven’t to patiently wait… hence the title.) I’m not the type of person who thinks a certain age should bring about specific events. And, I’m fortunate that the people in my life have never pushed that on me. I’ve always done everything in my own way and on my own timeline… and I love that about myself. I’ve never been married and don’t plan on it, but if it happened next year or when I’m 60, so be it… I’ve never wanted children, but if I ended up with someone with kids or ended up miraculously with child at this point in my life, so be it… I’ve never felt pressure to do any of those things or anything else on the percepted timelines of our society. For me, this is my own journey and I get to build it in a way that makes sense for me. And, I am absolutely aware of the luxury that this is. It’s a luxury to get to be confused and to get to wait and to get to move across the country and to get to live.
I am happy… I am content… I’m at peace and love my life. My life is more than enough. I’m so excited about where I’m at and what’s ahead. However, I believe it’s possible to be content and still know you’re meant to do more with your life or feel an indescribable desire for new journeys. You can still have urges in your soul that are undefinable and meant to be explored. I love that the Universe speaks to us in these quiet ways. Sometimes the answer is easily found and other times - not so much. So we wait for it to be more clear. But I do think it’s my fortunate gift in this lifetime to get to lean into it…. and I want to take full advantage because I GET to and Loren and your friend don't. I know Loren would encourage it if she were here. I’m still very close with her mother and through this confusing chapter, I’ve leaned on her a lot… I’ve asked her what she thinks Loren would say. I’ve talked to Loren myself through meditation/prayer. She’s with me always. I have a tattoo of an L on my wrist because it helps me keep her with me and remind me of my fortune and the love I had in her friendship. It also lets me get to talk about her because people always ask what the L is for. Hemingway said "Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name." So, I plan to keep her alive as long as I’m breathing.
I know your heart is broken right now. I can feel the pain in your words. There is nothing anyone can do or say right now to make you feel better. But if you want to write about your friend here and tell me about her, I’m listening. If you want to call me to talk, I’ll cry with you.
I have had times where a certain age was expected to bring a certain clarity, like you speak of in this article.
But while you were turning 44, my friend was dying of cancer at 39. She passed yesterday, and also like you said, the day came and went. We grieve, we learn, and life still goes on.
She won't make it to 42, your lucky number, nor 44. She's forever 39 and yet, she seemed to find immense clarity with death looming - that you get one precious life, and she used what time she had left to embrace every wish, hope, dream, expression that she could.
Perhaps what's missing for you, based on how you wrote this article alone, is that life consistently doesn't sound like it's enough. You sound like you're in searching mode, and you're starting over. While my friend, she'll never get to begin again.
This isn't to take away from your experience, I'm glad you shared it. It's my reaction to what you wrote in a state of grief, and maybe the universe speaking through me to you as a reminder that we are so lucky to be able to start anew with each birthday. Every age is lucky, if you look at it that way.
Would you still feel like something is missing if you knew *this birthday* was your last?
Oh Raven… my heart is hurting for you so much. I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your friend. I wish I could give you a big hug because I know the grief you are experiencing and it’s suffocating. I, too, lost my best friend from cancer 15 years ago. This kind of loss yields grief that will constantly be in the background… it will sneak up when you least expect it… even years later I still have moments where I break down. (It happened just last week actually due to my sister telling me about her friend going through chemo.) My friend, Loren, was so young and beautiful and kind and one of the most pure hearts I’ve known. She was one of my first friends in my 20s to show me what a true friendship looked like. She was a pre-k teacher and was adored by her students. She was truly epic… and forever 27.
Her untimely passing has stayed with me in such a way over the years that it’s a constant reminder for me to make the most of my life. Appreciate every moment. Literally live like I don’t have another birthday. The perspective of losing a loved one is not something I would wish on anyone, but when you experience it… you’re in a very exclusive club. Especially losing a friend to cancer because it takes everything from them slowly. You see your friend fight so hard only to fade into a version of herself that is startling to witness. Through this… you start to see how much you took for granted. Your ability to walk across the room. The fact that you get to make plans for next year. One of my favorite moments of perspective Loren gave me was when I developed Melasma on my face… she had just learned her cancer came back a few months before and I was at her house for the day, getting ready to go to dinner with her. I was emotional about how I looked so different… how these spots were hideous… through tears I shared my pain and self-pity and she listened with sympathy. At the end, she smiled softly and simply said… “At least you don’t have cancer.” And, that hit me HARD and straightened me right up. I still have melasma, but I don’t care. I see it now and think of her. I see it and it reminds me of how lucky I am.
Despite this gift of awareness of the brevity of life, I don’t think it takes away from the confusion that some stages of life can present. My post wasn’t about expecting things to be a certain way BECAUSE I’m 44, but more so about being ready for clarity now… waiting for magic to happen now… waiting for something to click for me now. I’m impatient. (But I haven’t to patiently wait… hence the title.) I’m not the type of person who thinks a certain age should bring about specific events. And, I’m fortunate that the people in my life have never pushed that on me. I’ve always done everything in my own way and on my own timeline… and I love that about myself. I’ve never been married and don’t plan on it, but if it happened next year or when I’m 60, so be it… I’ve never wanted children, but if I ended up with someone with kids or ended up miraculously with child at this point in my life, so be it… I’ve never felt pressure to do any of those things or anything else on the percepted timelines of our society. For me, this is my own journey and I get to build it in a way that makes sense for me. And, I am absolutely aware of the luxury that this is. It’s a luxury to get to be confused and to get to wait and to get to move across the country and to get to live.
I am happy… I am content… I’m at peace and love my life. My life is more than enough. I’m so excited about where I’m at and what’s ahead. However, I believe it’s possible to be content and still know you’re meant to do more with your life or feel an indescribable desire for new journeys. You can still have urges in your soul that are undefinable and meant to be explored. I love that the Universe speaks to us in these quiet ways. Sometimes the answer is easily found and other times - not so much. So we wait for it to be more clear. But I do think it’s my fortunate gift in this lifetime to get to lean into it…. and I want to take full advantage because I GET to and Loren and your friend don't. I know Loren would encourage it if she were here. I’m still very close with her mother and through this confusing chapter, I’ve leaned on her a lot… I’ve asked her what she thinks Loren would say. I’ve talked to Loren myself through meditation/prayer. She’s with me always. I have a tattoo of an L on my wrist because it helps me keep her with me and remind me of my fortune and the love I had in her friendship. It also lets me get to talk about her because people always ask what the L is for. Hemingway said "Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name." So, I plan to keep her alive as long as I’m breathing.
I know your heart is broken right now. I can feel the pain in your words. There is nothing anyone can do or say right now to make you feel better. But if you want to write about your friend here and tell me about her, I’m listening. If you want to call me to talk, I’ll cry with you.
I’m sending so much love your way.