loss

As February quietly comes to a close, I feel the turn of winter to spring coming closer and closer. While we had a severe “false spring” in Georgia, I cannot help but see nature still managing to move forward into easier times. The array of small birds playing behind the shade of the apartments in the morning, the spindly sharp briars stretching out from the soil, and wild onions sprouting in the most unlikely places - all signs of coming warmth and sunnier days.

I originally wanted to write this month about my experience with the outdoors over the last year into this one. Starting from my love of the outdoors as a kid to the difficulties of getting up and into nature due to an on going mental disorder. It was certainly something I needed to get out and have synthesized into words. Maybe one day I will post that draft, but, for now, I have something else pressing on me that I want to get out into the world.

I certainly have felt loss in my life. I’ve felt the hurt of being left behind and the pain of losing connection with someone you deeply love. My younger experiences with these concepts have mostly healed, but in a way that has left residual scars. Childhood is full of firsts and being deeply misunderstood as you move into your teens is almost assuredly a given. Despite these truths, there can be instances, whether brief or over the course of years, that leave lasting impacts on you for better or worse. From a passing comment about someone’s perception of you to deeply traumatic events, these things can mold you and your psyche without your awareness. While I have experienced much in the spectrum of hurt, the residual imprints have create a deep wound of abandonment.

You could say a long history with religious structures plays into the development of this anxiety, and it certainly was the case for me. Control and fear run rampant in religious settings. While I only knew it in the form of the Protestant Baptist denomination, it seems to be a common thread among many who grow up within Christianity as a whole. Both of my parents were deeply involved in the church as an organization and were aptly excited to have their children participate with them. I went to every Sunday School class since I could remember, went to youth group on every given occasion, and all the summer camps they offered. My entire elementary to high school education was classical Christian, and I even went to a Passion City conference as a senior. My life was drenched in religion and the dogma that goes along with it.

I was told time and time again to fear for the salvation of my soul and of the lost souls around me. Animated men screaming from the pulpit about how the end times were nigh, and most Sunday mornings ended with questions about of how prepared you were to die for your faith. Beyond sermons full of fear-induced rhetoric, there was the community within the church as well - the “Big C Church” as they call it. People finding subtle ways to lie, gossip, and divide each other within the groups that supposedly existed for support in times of need. It was like watching the largest theatre production being put on every day in front of my eyes. Anyone slightly perceived as “other” would be ostracized, gossiped about, and decidedly “not a real Christian” by the rest of the collective. The air was always thick with inauthenticity. And despite all of this, it was all I had ever known. It was the framework from which I had experienced god for my entire life, and I was not going to give it up easily - no matter how much it hurt me.

I spent a long time trying to fit within these settings. Countless volunteer hours, small groups, and Sunday mornings waiting and trying to find community - people who would love me the way I felt god had done before. I would think “This will be the place” or “These will be my people”, but at every turn, I was either forced out or never accepted to begin with. I even remember distinctly attending a church in college where I had tried desperately to make friends for over a year only for the pastor to proclaim one Sunday morning, “If you don’t feel like you belong, it’s your fault”. I never went back.

It was after that experience I began to draw closer to people in my college program rather than looking for a new church setting to get involved in. Through that, I found the most beautiful, inspiring people who I still call my friends today - all with a beautiful array of backgrounds, belief systems, and experiences. We had somehow managed to come together as the outliers at our conservative, homogenized university and have this special community just for us.

I feared in every part of my body I would somehow lose this - this shining hope I had received after years of wandering the desert. I feared I wasn’t good enough for them, that they secretly didn’t want me around, or that I was naive for believing anyone would actually like me for who I was. I was both reveling in my new found friendships and fearing for it to all come crashing down day in and day out. It wasn’t until one night one of them would tell me explicitly that they were not going anywhere - that they would be a friend for life. I burst into tears at the relief I felt and couldn’t muster a coherent word for the rest of the evening. It was all I could do after believing for so long I must have been unworthy to be cared for like this.

The thing about loss is that you never stop losing things or people - no matter what they say or do. People take different paths in life, they change, other people pull them away or something unthinkable creates a rift in your tight bond. It’s both common and natural for these things to happen. While I know this to be true on paper, the reality of it fills me with an unhealthy amount of stress and dread. Did I do something? Have I not done enough? How can I ask them not to go? As someone who keeps such few people close people in her life, to lose anyone would be devastating. Now, at 25, I see it happening all over again. The natural cycle continuing without my permission.

This sense of loss gently moved me into the woods where I could take a walk and clear my head. As I felt my stress and anxiety spiking, I would just grab my coat and go to be with the trees for an hour or two. My weekends began to be consumed by longer and longer walks, and week days staring out windows watching and listening to the trees sway. I couldn’t just do nothing, but there wasn’t much I could do. Think about losing another person in my life, fearing how this will change both of you, and anxiety spouting up about being left alone again - all bubbling up after years of dormancy. It began to be like clock work: the anxiety heightening, run to the closet for my jacket, and trying to escape my own head for a moment.

The more I would take these walk, the more I started to pause and give thanks to the trees for their company. I started practically landscaping the small loop of trees I always passed to give myself another thing to occupy my mind. I pulled weeds, removed dead limbs, and picked up as much trash as I could manage. After some time, there was one tree in particular I liked to stop at and rest from all the labor. A lone birch just off the bend of the loop I walked. Crunching my way through old autumn leaves, I would pour out a little water on her roots while keeping my hand on her trunk. Just taking the time to be grateful for one of the few things keeping me grounded in such a turbulent time. As I continued to get caught up in my stress and heightened anxiety over the idea of loss, I began to spend longer and longer amounts of time with her. Longer pours of water, longer time spent looking through her branches, longer time just touching her trunk - as if taking care of this tree would somehow heal what I was going through.

Finally, after enough stress and countless hours wondering what to do, I decided to take the advice of a friend and do a little ceremony. It was a ritual where you would use a green apple to simulate the loss of someone or something you love while also praying and meditating on the feelings it would bring up - perfect for what I was going through. So, with knife and apple in hand, I went out to my walking trail to a quiet spot by the birch tree. Cutting the apple neatly into 8 slices, I took the first sliver and held it close.

I thought about all the love and affection I could had to give. Squeezing it tight and smelled the fresh earthy scent through my fingers, I thought about how tiring it is to love without being loved in return. It was no wonder I had such few people close to me. You put yourself out there time and time again just to be ignored, left, or laughed at. Eventually, you try to grow satisfied with what you have, but more often than not it leaves you dejected and bitter.

And then, I chunked it as far into the woods as I possibly could watching it bobble down a hill out of sight. Seeing that little green slice tumble out of view hurt me more than I thought it would. It felt like I had thrown something valuable away. I wondered if the slice had got up and jumped away on its own would I have feel differently - besides a little surprised and frightened. Took a breath feeling and leaned into the loss. Then, I turned my gaze to the bench and grabbed one of the remaining 7 pieces.

One by one, I picked a piece up and began to pray. I thought about my friend. Hoping they would return to my life. Praying for their safety in my absence. Then, my mind moved to other past relationships. People who I had invested love and care into and now don’t even speak to anymore. Even the ones I still loved despite not knowing them anymore. I prayed for their peace and that our parting was for both of our highest good. I prayed for clarity in my pain - to see why this all cuts so deep. I prayed over and over again holding each slice close.

My mind shifted and something new materialized in my mind - my younger self. A version of myself I had been years ago. She was small, wide-eyed, and in love with the world she inhabited. She was full of hope, life, and joy. She was looking for people just like her, in hopes she could finally be a little less alone. Of all the people I had been afraid to disappoint, afraid would leave, afraid would not love me for who I was, I had done it all to her. I was staring at the person that I had loved the least.

I had left her time and time again for the sake of keeping people in my life I had simply out grown. Abandoning my true feelings, hiding my volcanic personality to be perceived in a certain way; the most beautiful parts of myself being shed to be more desirable and more digestible. Leaving my authenticity and spirit for the sake of people who couldn’t even stomach my depths. How could another love me if I could not begin to love that version of myself? How could I even begin to love another without knowing how to love all of myself? I saw myself as clearly as I ever had before, and she was worth loving.

As I prayed my final prayer, I asked for the courage to love. To love myself more than I ever had before, and, in turn, to love others enough to let them go. I thought back to my friend, to past friends, to those who’d hurt me, and to those who loved me for who I truly was. I hold them all in my heart because they hold a part of me, too - no matter where they go or what comes between us. I took my slices and walked down past the birch next to the creek and buried my prayers - placing each slice into the earth. As I trudged back up the hill, I felt a little lighter than when I had gotten there before.

Love looks like many things, and right now, for me, it looks like letting go. What does love look like for you? Is it letting go of control, fear, or loss? Is it allowing others to see who you truly are without restriction or risking a close relationship by being completely honest with them? Is it giving up a lie you have told yourself for so long that you’ve held to it like gospel, or is it allowing yourself to be move on from a childhood wound you’ve kept deep in your spirit?

Whatever it may be, I hope you love yourself enough to take that leap because there is freedom on the other side.

Until next time~