Sometimes it's not enough to "just be"

No need to hustle, but it's ok to do something even when everything around you falls apart.

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“Give yourself all the space you need, this is going to be a tough time.”

I’ve heard some iteration of this phrase as I told some close friends about me flying to Canada to try and see my father one last time in hospice (while being in the throes of lockdown, due to our friend, Rona, no doubt). 

I appreciate the intention, I really do. On some level I listened to these lovely people, clearing my calendar like crazy. But, I had the foresight to know that if I don’t have some sort of a routine, my mind would play devilish tricks on me. I wasn’t going to have access to my beloved loose leaf pu erh tea from home in the mornings — though my sister bringing me hot water at the place where I was quarantining was and still is hilarious. What regularity did I have, other than some work projects here and there?

Writing one article within the span of a week wasn’t enough. I was officially going crazy, ruminating in my head about the immediate future (my father was in hospice after all). 

I cried, heeding the advice of the well-intentioned folks who told me to give these emotions and intense situation space. I couldn’t help it, I responded. I needed an outlet to channel it all. And the yellow notebook was my refuge.

I had been working on a podcast episode for a now-shelved project for a few months, interviewing people on their views of giving up alcohol, whether temporarily or for the remainder of their lives. I was getting ready to review the audio when I got the call about my now late father.

Among the many items I could fit into a tiny carry on suitcase was a notebook filled with scribbles of somewhat coherent words (I was that adamant about getting from the airport to my parents’ home as fast as possible, and there ain’t no time to wait by the luggage carousel eagerly waiting for the beeping sound announcing thy bag has arrived). I felt like the Tasmanian Devil, flying through the house grabbing clothes, masks, hand sanitizer, and my passport. I did not care about the crumpled clothes. All I wanted to do was to make sure I got to the airport on time, not wasting a minute to be at my father’s side. 

In the throes of arriving at the house in Canada, scurrying to the basement to quarantine and trying my best to stay sane while isolating myself, I forgot all about the notebook’s shiny sunshine-yellow cover with the pink rose coils. 

But it stared at me one day, not letting me go from its grip. 

I opened it and tried to decipher its contents inside.

Leading with curiosity, figuring out which parts went with which when it came to interpreting the podcast interviews, and writing a script to go along with it, became my lifeline. With curiosity, I stopped feeling overwhelmed all the time. The hum of sadness and grief were ever-present, but they quieted enough for me to write, re-write, and write again. The script I wrote took five drafts. 

Reviewing the audio clips I used from guests took hours. I even thought about them as I was binging reality shows on Netflix. 

When I was finally able to come out of quarantine, I ended up in my mother’s SUV with my microphone, recording the narration. If you listen to the episode and hear a slight twinge of shivering, know that the SUV was parked in the garage in the middle of winter. I was scared to turn the car on because my mic would pick up engine sounds. 

I’m so proud of that episode. I really am.

Not because it kickstarted my podcast production career. Or even those I interviewed loved how I interpreted their stories.

More so, it was the fact that I did it. Publishing that episode felt like the literal definition of creating art from pain. That I listened to myself to know I needed to work, more opportunities to figure out “stuff.” It was the regular routine I needed in the midst of so much chaos. 

Listening to others, especially those who have experienced what you’re currently going through is totally fine.

But grief is totally different. By definition, grief is a reaction to loss. How do you offer advice, or a ten-step program one should follow when by nature, what you’re going through feels so vague? 

Even in the throes of strong emotions, try to come back to yourself. Find a way away from the overstimulation and listen to that little voice of yours begging to be heard. It’s quiet, but it’s there. And even if it’s much louder than what mine was, there’s the aspect of giving yourself permission to listen to it. To act upon it. 

Your thoughts, feelings, desires are wise. Nobody else knows all the highs and lows of your life like you have. Neither do they know how you click, and the ways in which you thrive. Why wouldn’t you know the answers on how to take care of yourself?

Yes, give yourself the space you need. But how much you actually need should be up to you.

Let me know in the comments: what is one piece of well-intentioned advice people have given you that you’ve decided not to follow?