The past six months have been among the wildest, most destabilizing and disorienting of my life. Helene was a giant, life changing part of that, but becoming an empty nester? That’s been a hurricane on the inside.

Trees down (not a single daughter left standing in my home), grief and bewilderment flooding my senses, uncertainty and heartbreak everywhere I turn, and the sudden need to reassess my resources and find new sources of (emotional) safety.

Hurricanes inside and out. Yes, that about sums up these past few months.

Enough dust has settled now that I’m just starting to be able to make out the edges of what seems like my path forward. But before I take too many more steps in that direction, I thought I’d share a tender, essential part of my grief tending process with you.

In short, in January—the same month my youngest daughter graduated from high school—I closed the chapter on the most transformative decade of my life to date, moved out of the home I finished raising my girls in, and moved into a new home (on a beautiful piece of land, surrounded by community) with my wonderful partner, Jeremy.

Sensing that this was a moment in time worth naming, honoring, and celebrating, I decided to have a Turning the Page party to mark this chapter’s ending with my closest local friends and family.

I wrote an ode to my beloved home and read it to my loved ones, crying and being witnessed by dozens of teary eyes. That witnessing was really important to me. I needed to be seen and held as I crossed through this portal. I’m so grateful I followed that instinct, as it’s allowed me to move into this new home and chapter with wholeheartedness, tender as my heart may be.

I’m sharing my ode with you because in this grief illiterate culture, it feels essential that we’re open with one another about the ways we move through life’s most sacred and heart breaking seasons. 

To Be Well Held by a Good House

Nine years in this home.

One of those, married,

Eight, divorced.

The only place I lived longer was 1026 Wisconsin St.

In Oshkosh, when I was a girl.

This caring old lady of a house,

(She is 97, after all),

Knows me, I think, better than any human.

With quiet eyes and steadfast care,

She has borne witness to the

Rearing of my teens (¾ of them, anyway)

To the building of my business

To the teaching and mentoring of hundreds of women

(How weird and wonderful is Zoom),

And to the revitalization of my life.

Witnessed by this good house

I breathed life into parts of me

Long buried, atrophied, and begging to be fed;

To be healed, to be known.

This house was my primary witness, in fact,

As I grew into my wholeness.

*****

There are so many ways I could talk about

The life lived in this house.

Do I share what it was like during the weeks with my girls?

The cartwheel practice in the kitchen,

Boyfriends with their baby faces and stinky cologne

Breakups and tear streaked cheeks

Dinners on the porch at sunset

Cuddles with Maya and Goose

So many hugs, so much listening,

Walks through this sweet neighborhood,

And walking the tightrope,

Always teetering between trying to keep them safe

But wanting them to experience the world

While they’re still around for me to help them source safety again

Once they’ve experienced the world.

Or do I share what it was like during the weeks without my girls:

Writing, so much writing

And reading, almost as much.

Teaching,

Coaching,

Trying to be a CEO,

Even though the role doesn’t

actually suit me.

Hammock naps,

Dating apps.

Giving my inner 17-year old permission to play.

And keeping her safe, unlike when I was actually 17.

Young lovers, old lovers

(Both have their advantages),

And one bucket list Latino lover,

A little toxic the whole damn year,

But in Spanish.

Kitchen floor yoga,

Kitchen floor grief rituals

Kitchen floor contact improv.

Spaciousness, finally.

*****

I kept the two worlds separate,

Almost entirely,

Which, I think, was healthier for everyone.

Though now that my girls are grown, or nearly so,

It feels important that they know,

That you know, my beautiful babies,

That I also lived a very full and wonderful life in this house

When you weren’t here.

Now that you’re grown, or nearly so,

It feels important that you begin to know me

Not just as your mama,

But as a whole ass woman in her power,

Whose life is full of joy and pleasure.

*****

I don’t think we’re meant to know the secrets of the universe

Or why bad things happen to good people,

Or even how birds know when and where to migrate.

But I do think we’re meant to live intimately

(Intimacy as in “Into me, see”)

With the homes we’re given,

for however short or long a while

We’re meant to live in them.

A good house

Gives us the opportunity

To open

To explore within

To learn to love what we find inside

A good house

Lets us practice

At being more authentic

And more honest.

*****

I live with a wide open heart.

I learned that I could live that way

And still be okay,

In the last good house I lived in.

But it was in this house, that I got to practice

Loving and living beyond the confines

of a too-small-for-me relationship.

Here’s the thing about living with an open heart,

Or at least once you’ve learned the art of self-protection:

You start drawing your people toward you.

Maybe the same goes for good houses.

Maybe they, too, have wide open hearts.

Maybe the old, wise ones draw good people to them

With more ease

Just as we humans do.

*****

As I was waking up this morning,

Around 5:00, as usual,

I heard her talking to me

Through the rain falling from her gutters

Gentle and steady and kind.

And it occurred to me

That good houses and good mothers

Have a lot in common.

Firstly, it’s easy to take us for granted.

Because we want nothing more than to be

Well-used, utilized, leaned into for comfort and coziness.

We want nothing more than for you to feel

And heal from the love we offer.

Another thing we have in common?

Society acts like we’re invisible.

Rarely do you hear acknowledgment

Of the part a good house or a good mother,

Played in the life of main characters

Also, you’ll notice,

The main characters are rarely houses or mothers.

*****

Some might hear about my love for this old house

And fear I’m being foolish in moving.

But here’s the thing about that:

We sometimes outgrow even good houses.

We say goodbye to things we love

Because the world is vast and full of good things

To be experienced.

And sometimes you get really lucky

And you do your work

And you outgrow enough of your maladaptive coping strategies

And you find healthy, easy, beautifully supportive love

That makes you want to give up your hard-won independence,

And, of all things, cohabitate with a man again.

But not just any man.

It’s important that you know

Just how much I’ve loved single life

How much I’ve enjoyed solo parenting

How deeply I adore my house staying tidy

And not having to wait on consensus before making decisions.

You need to know these things

In order to understand

How beautiful the love I share with this man is.

I’m giving up a lot by letting go of this house, this independence,

But what I’m saying yes to

Is being well held by a good man and good land in a good house.

*****

To my daughters who grew up here:

This is a big moment for you, too.

You were 9 and 11 when we moved in.

And living here with you

Will forever be among my sweetest,

Most cherished memories.

Doing life with you through your teen years

Holding you through heartbreaks,

Packing your lunches

Even though you were plenty old enough

To pack them for yourselves.

Standing at the window

Watching you drive away

Over and over again

And praying that you’d be kept safe

And come home soon.

I will miss having to hug you from behind

when you leave for school

So as not to have to smell like your perfume all day,

I will miss braiding your hair

And bringing you tiny plates of breakfast

Just enough that you might actually eat something.

I will miss cuddling on the couch

And hearing about your day

And just please come home often.

*****

I told my ex-husband I was done with his shenanigans

Right there on her kitchen floor.

This house watched me get free.

I broke up a dog fight with my arm

And passed out from the pain on that couch.

This house has held me through many a hard lesson learned.

I opened the front door to

The sweetest, healthiest,

Most life-giving love I’ve ever known,

During that first summer of Covid lockdown.

I’m pretty sure I heard this old house sigh with relief.

“He’s a good one”

She whispered,

Just as I noticed too.

*****

If we’re lucky enough to be well-held

By a house, or a lover, or a friend;

If we’re healed enough to say yes to the right folks

And no to those we’ve outgrown,

Then, eventually, we will be faced with loss

Of the most profound sort.

Life’s crazy like that.

Deep love inevitably ends in deep loss.

But it’s through those rivers of grief

Carved first into the wilds our inner landscape,

And then gradually into our aging faces,

That we soften enough

To know a good house when we see one,

To fill good houses with good people,

And to allow ourselves to be well held

By a good house, a good man, or a good mom.

May we all cultivate the kind of community and courage needed to allow ourselves to be held through life’s most brutiful moments,