6 months
It's been a wild, wild ride. As I sit here I struggle to write, because I feel more vulnerable than ever. I am not ready to share the truth of some things on this space.
In many ways, and in the biggest of ways, this year has been a reset. When I think about why this reset feels more akin to having the ground lifted out from underneath me with no safe place to land, vs. a reset that is rejuvenating, clarifying, and a slate wiped clean, I know that it is because it is intertwined with the ever-complicated emotions surrounding loss.
Last year, the narrative was this: I was moving to Canada with my partner of 5, going on 6 years to experience life outside of Australia, to climb, to hike and to have a sabbatical of sorts for 2 years before returning to my family, friends, career, and life back home.
This year, the narrative is this: after years of trying to work through our differences, I separated amicably from my partner of 6 years, and I chose to stay in Canada, leaving behind my family, friends, career, and life back home in exchange for a new life here.
Up until recently, I didn't allow myself to feel entirely into this new narrative. Whilst separating from Martin was the right thing to do for the both of us, and choosing to stay in Canada was something I was strongly compelled to do, I never allowed myself the space to grieve over how my life had changed in a big way. Closing the door on someone who was part of my life for 8 years, someone I loved, still deeply respect and have a great friendship with is painful; leaving a place I called home and all the security that came with that is hard too. Harder still is that the suffering is self-inflicted, albeit the knowledge that through this comes growth.
I powered through the first half of the year in a mechanical fashion. I invested time into myself and the life I am trying to build, attempting to push aside any questions, doubts, fears, anxieties, sadness. Almost as if I'd said to myself, “you made your bed, now sleep in it. You made these choices, deal with it. Don't complain. Don't ask questions. Move on with it, you don't have time to feel this way”. The melancholy sat there as an undercurrent, a subtle shadow in my periphery, hiding just well enough that I had hidden it from myself. Here I thought I had made such progress with my own self-awareness.
In this time, I also developed a kidney infection that became systemic, rendering me unable to do much of anything for weeks; I made a couple of wrong decisions that called me to question my own integrity and sense of self-worth; I worked nearly every day for a couple of months to build up my savings for permanent residency (and am still attempting to navigate the stress involved with money + survival); and I have been to and from Vancouver to spend time with my aunt Juliet, my mother's younger sister who has had cancer for a long time and is now, sadly, terminal. Tita Julie has been like a second mother to my siblings, my cousins and I. I have not allowed myself to feel sad about this, operating under that veil of stoicism and holding it together because it is also a hard thing to grieve someone who is still alive.
June arrived, and it hit me all at once: the reality of what I am leaving behind; the uncertainty of my future; the loss of my partner; the pain of what my family and I are going through—knowing that my uncle will lose a wife, my cousin will lose a mother, my mother will lose a sister, my grandmother will lose a daughter, and there is nothing any of us can do to protect each other from that pain; feeling as if I will never “make it” and that I have no idea where my photography or career is going (if anywhere); being constantly worried about saving enough money because now, this isn't just a 2 year working holiday—this is real life. The idea I may not have enough to provide for a family I one day want to have is daunting in and of itself.
Most days are about putting one foot in front of the other. I feel exhausted by day's end. I keep to myself most nights, reserving what little energy I have for nurturing and self-care. I want to return to that place of equanimity; of softness, lightness and ease. I cannot rush the process of getting there, but I am impatient to do so.
I over-intellectualised my grief in order to try and make sense of it, and without knowing it, I had put up walls around parts of me that were just not ready to go through the hurt. For me to feel ready to feel the hurt, I need to feel as if I am grounded and secure, and I don't yet know how to reclaim that feeling. With so much instability in my life I now have no idea how to feel safe, or what that even looks like. I can only trust that I will get there, with time, but right now, the question is: how? How can I reconnect with why I am here? How can I reconnect with who I am and what makes me feel safe? How can I trust the timing of my life?
