How to Do This

My Instagram feed is full of grief support these days. Right after my Dad died, I saw a reel from a woman who had just lost her father. Seeing her anguish felt like looking in a mirror. I shared that in the comments and added, "I don't know how to do this." A kind stranger replied, "None of us do."

I’m one of those weird creatures who dreads the anxiety produced by the unknown and also resents the drudgery of routine. So, as much as it feels uncomfortable, I seek out the new. The untraveled. The adventure. 

But, I also want it to be on my terms. Thought through. Analyzed. Planned. Life changes that I haven’t enacted are untethering. I don’t like them. And I don’t want to walk through them.

Moving forward without my Dad is in the top five of my life’s worst "surprises." It feels terrible not only because it’s a terrible loss, but also because it’s a terrible reminder that I don’t have control. 

I was barely 17 when I moved out of my parents’ house and into a college apartment with three young women I’ve never met before. I’d never driven on the freeway prior to that. Never spent much time outside of my small hometown. Only been on a plane once. And had no idea what awaited me. 

I sat in a circle of freshmen at orientation and the facilitator asked us to say one kind thing about ourselves for each key we had on our key rings. I had one. My car key. I hadn’t checked into my housing yet. I left the key to my parents’ home behind. I didn’t have work keys (that would take a couple weeks of going door to door at the nearby mall), or even a mail key.

When it became my turn, I said: “I’m someone who will make the best of this change.” I did. I realized then that every time I stepped outside of my comfort and survived would become a building block for my self reliance (and, to a lesser extent, confidence). I figured out that, by testing myself, I was growing my sense of self. Over time, it became no big deal to travel alone. Move to different places. Take on new jobs. Pursue adventure. But always on my terms, right?

I was fearless for a long time. I loved that version of myself. Still do. I miss her. Sadly, though, life has showed me how terrifying and mercurial and random she can be. Heartbreak. Violence. Suffering. Loss. I've started to understand why so many are risk averse. Life is utterly frightening on so many levels. 

I have definitely tightened my grip on control as I've navigated this life thing. I'm not necessarily proud of that. I still want new adventures. I want discovery. But I don't want unexpected drama, pain, loss, illness, etc. I'm also even a little weird when plans change. Because my brain and heart have already traveled down the road of what I thought was coming. I find myself short circuiting on my way to acceptance. Control freak out. All the way.

When I unwittingly travel into the territory of "I don't know how to do this," I have to remind myself that I've made it this far. I employed a similar tactic when I used to train for distance runs. When I would start to feel like, "I don't know how to- or if I can- do this," I would turn around and look at how far I'd already come. That helped immeasurably.

These days, I just keep telling myself that it's okay not to know how to do this. Then I remind myself of how much I have done. What I have survived. What God has carried me through when my own strength failed. What I have been able to do because I am blessed and loved and strong and supported. When I take stock of all of that, I know I will get through this. Even if I don't know how.

Lately I've been trying to embody that 17-year-old Briana- sitting criss cross applesauce in a circle of equally excited and scared college freshmen- who said, "I will make the best of this change." I don't know where the words came from then. I certainly did not have the confidence they suggest. But I knew what I had been through to that point. Four decades later, I have lived through so much more than I could have ever imagined. I'd love to be her and me all at once now. I need her naivete. Her optimism. Her belief. Her hope.

57-year-old Briana is here to say, "I don't know how to do this, but I've made it this far. I can do this, too. I can even learn and grow from this. I can make the best of the worst."

We got this.

Xoxo, B