May 2021
As I sit here in my car, the tears from my earlier phone conversation with my father drying up to become sticky on my cheeks, I can’t help but think about all the things that have ended in my life recently. Two courses I helped create and teach. A leadership role in one of the most important organizations I’ve ever been a part of. Two classes, and one more to come within the week. A relationship. A job, with another now on the clock to end soon. A semester of therapy.
When I think about all these endings, I feel hollow. Empty. As I cried in my last therapy session of the year, I put into words the terrible truth of it all: “Being human is the worst because we are conditioned to equate endings with loss- even though I know... I know these endings prove to me what I have gained more than what I have lost.” This statement, this knowing, doesn’t change the tears or the hollowness. But it does help remind me of and keep me present in the idea that every single ending brings with it a gift. Some may be only memories. Some may be more tangible. All are invaluable to keep me getting out of bed each morning knowing full well that this April is just one of many months that will collapse in on itself in this way.
The reasons these endings are so difficult is threefold, with each reason being tied to the rest. One, I am people oriented, not job or performance-oriented. If I do a rough count of all the people involved in the activities I mentioned above, I lost around 40 people that were important to me. Forty. Forty people whose roles ranged from mentor, to friend, to lover. That is staggering. But. I didn’t really lose 40 people. They aren’t dying or going anywhere for good. In fact, when I’ve needed them recently, all have responded, remaining with me even after our formal commitment had subsided.
The second reason I find loss so personally difficult is because of my identity as a busy person. My therapist once asked me, if all the plates I kept spinning in the air crashed down, what the individual in the middle would look like. How can we be kind to her? How can we let her know it is safe to step out from behind the plates into the world to feel all the love and the pain it brings? My answer to that now is gentleness. Slowing down, looking inward, becoming. Now that my worst fear has been realized and all the plates are at my feet, I wonder what I can make with the pieces. How I can put them all back together again into something beautiful. But this time, I will make something I can stand in front of rather than hide behind.
The final reason I cannot bear endings, and particularly the ones that hit my life this year, is because I am currently the happiest and healthiest I have ever been. If you’ve been reading my blog posts for the last few months, that may concern you. I’ve gone through dark times recently. But I’ve also allowed myself to feel more sunshine on my face than ever before. I learned how to set boundaries with work and school so I could take time on the weekends to be with my partner. This motivation also pushed me to become a better homemaker, always having my laundry done by Thursday night so I could pack on Friday. I learned how to love my queerness this semester. To be proud and share myself fully, to start to share my pronouns fully, to start to share me fully. I learned to advocate for myself, stand up for myself, and relearn my own value. I strengthened my relationship with my father, mother, sister and brother. I was a better student and more conscientious leader. I learned when to step up and when to step back. I would not have been able to take these steps for growth without each and every one of the people I lost this semester. So, if I was my best self this semester in this context, with these people, I am worried that, with losing them, I will lose this too.
Luckily, I don’t let fear drive me anymore. So, even though I don’t have a partner to visit on weekends anymore, I still will protect my time and prioritize self-care by taking weekends off. I will still validate myself as a queer, single woman. Even though I may not have the job that inspired me to work harder and advocate for myself, I will continue to be my own champion, never letting the work I do be undervalued or under-appreciated.
My therapist described my behavior this year as risky and creative. As much as I scoffed at the start, I have to say, she was right. I threw myself head-first and heart-first into every relationship, personal and professional, this semester. I was met with beautiful triumphs and shattering defeats. I made commitments and broke them and fixed them again. I healed and I laughed until I couldn’t stand only to find myself on the floor the next day for a different reason: in tears, in prayers, in laughter. Always the floor. I took chances that paid off in dividends and ones that did not pan out. I’ve had the heartbreak of a lifetime at least a few times. In short, I lived, I loved, I learned. And, looking back, even through the blur of tears, I would not change a single thing.
Delaney Couri is a master’s student in the Department of Teaching, Learning and Culture
When I think about all these endings, I feel hollow. Empty. As I cried in my last therapy session of the year, I put into words the terrible truth of it all: “Being human is the worst because we are conditioned to equate endings with loss- even though I know... I know these endings prove to me what I have gained more than what I have lost.” This statement, this knowing, doesn’t change the tears or the hollowness. But it does help remind me of and keep me present in the idea that every single ending brings with it a gift. Some may be only memories. Some may be more tangible. All are invaluable to keep me getting out of bed each morning knowing full well that this April is just one of many months that will collapse in on itself in this way.
The reasons these endings are so difficult is threefold, with each reason being tied to the rest. One, I am people oriented, not job or performance-oriented. If I do a rough count of all the people involved in the activities I mentioned above, I lost around 40 people that were important to me. Forty. Forty people whose roles ranged from mentor, to friend, to lover. That is staggering. But. I didn’t really lose 40 people. They aren’t dying or going anywhere for good. In fact, when I’ve needed them recently, all have responded, remaining with me even after our formal commitment had subsided.
The second reason I find loss so personally difficult is because of my identity as a busy person. My therapist once asked me, if all the plates I kept spinning in the air crashed down, what the individual in the middle would look like. How can we be kind to her? How can we let her know it is safe to step out from behind the plates into the world to feel all the love and the pain it brings? My answer to that now is gentleness. Slowing down, looking inward, becoming. Now that my worst fear has been realized and all the plates are at my feet, I wonder what I can make with the pieces. How I can put them all back together again into something beautiful. But this time, I will make something I can stand in front of rather than hide behind.
The final reason I cannot bear endings, and particularly the ones that hit my life this year, is because I am currently the happiest and healthiest I have ever been. If you’ve been reading my blog posts for the last few months, that may concern you. I’ve gone through dark times recently. But I’ve also allowed myself to feel more sunshine on my face than ever before. I learned how to set boundaries with work and school so I could take time on the weekends to be with my partner. This motivation also pushed me to become a better homemaker, always having my laundry done by Thursday night so I could pack on Friday. I learned how to love my queerness this semester. To be proud and share myself fully, to start to share my pronouns fully, to start to share me fully. I learned to advocate for myself, stand up for myself, and relearn my own value. I strengthened my relationship with my father, mother, sister and brother. I was a better student and more conscientious leader. I learned when to step up and when to step back. I would not have been able to take these steps for growth without each and every one of the people I lost this semester. So, if I was my best self this semester in this context, with these people, I am worried that, with losing them, I will lose this too.
Luckily, I don’t let fear drive me anymore. So, even though I don’t have a partner to visit on weekends anymore, I still will protect my time and prioritize self-care by taking weekends off. I will still validate myself as a queer, single woman. Even though I may not have the job that inspired me to work harder and advocate for myself, I will continue to be my own champion, never letting the work I do be undervalued or under-appreciated.
My therapist described my behavior this year as risky and creative. As much as I scoffed at the start, I have to say, she was right. I threw myself head-first and heart-first into every relationship, personal and professional, this semester. I was met with beautiful triumphs and shattering defeats. I made commitments and broke them and fixed them again. I healed and I laughed until I couldn’t stand only to find myself on the floor the next day for a different reason: in tears, in prayers, in laughter. Always the floor. I took chances that paid off in dividends and ones that did not pan out. I’ve had the heartbreak of a lifetime at least a few times. In short, I lived, I loved, I learned. And, looking back, even through the blur of tears, I would not change a single thing.
Delaney Couri is a master’s student in the Department of Teaching, Learning and Culture