Give Grief a Chance: A reflection on identity through reciprocity, plants, and the secret world of rest.

She was confident, successful by cultural standards and full of magnetic energy while living inside a cliché: the life of the party. She was the woman people pegged for ten years younger, her signature introduction, her little party trick that kept on partying. Raving every weekend on barely any sleep, then showing up Monday ready to power through the grind of corporate capitalism, proud of her cranked up capacity. She’d cracked the code and knew how to keep herself looking endlessly alive, moving quick enough to be everywhere (except present) seemingly all at once, shining to impress them in all the ways that counted.

But who am I… really?

Turns out I don’t need all of those people around anymore, praising my hard work, generous contributions, and the endless supply of a good time. Observing the evolution of an ego that protected me so well through a black-and-white lens, now the world shimmers with a new set of colors I hadn’t noticed before. I’m no longer ashamed to admit when I’m tired, and while I’m still learning how to be at ease with rest among people who aren’t yet at ease with their own, I’m comfortable enough now to receive it like a gift, the reverence of being slipped a key to a secret world, the world of rest.

Of course, it wasn’t always this way. Quiet used to send quivers through my core and ache in my bones. I was terrified of stillness, not knowing what I might find there. But somehow, this body, a magnificent vessel of habits found faith in repetition and the art of quiet slipped in.

And of late, I’ve decided to let grief join the party, considering that maybe it didn’t show up to ruin the vibe. Its presence birthed a new slogan: Give Grief a Chance. I’d like to print it on a sticker and hand it out to strangers, not so much a party trick as a small offering, an invitation to the guest we don’t know how to host. The one we assume will make everyone uncomfortable, until we learn grief just wants a chair, a glass of red, and permission to be in the room.

I am slower now. Intentional. Grounded. Sensitive. I require being closer to the ground, rooted in the strength of my inner guidance that I’m still getting to know, trust, love, and nurture.

Embracing the unforgiving practice of allowing midlife in all of its ugly tenderness, giving space for my wisdom to unfold through vulnerability, allowing my eyes to fill for human suffering.  In the same way my friends, the plants, don’t apologize for their graceful process of growing, I’ve decided to become a beginner again, enjoying the lessons while learning new skills, like patience. Accepting hard truths like how seeking answers is less about meeting expectations and more about patience and surrender. Answers won’t be forced, they’re earned over time.

And the plants, my sweet friends, astound me in their devotion and consistency, beyond what we deserve. When was the last time you paused and thanked them for the oxygen, food, water, shelter and medicine they provide us? Our entire lives are held up by their generosity, and we take from them like we’re owed, because we’re too busy to notice. And still, they keep on giving, whether we return the favor or not.

I wish to be more like a plant. I wish to access their devotion, commitment to adapt amongst change, forever in the name of growth. I wish for their energy to pulse through me, letting their guidance anchor in my body, this magnificent vessel, recalibrating my vibration in harmony.

And as I sit here, in reverence to my friends, the plants, letting their wisdom seep into my blood, feeling it trickle from my crown, enveloping my heart and dripping to my toes in a warm, milky golden molasses, their wisdom becomes my nature in what I choose, in who I no longer chase, in how I’m loosening the need to judge. The ripple effect is slow,  but I can feel it moving, in thick waves. And since I’ve embraced grief, let it join me on my walks in the woods and made a space for it next to my pillow in bed, the map of my own existence is being rewritten.

Inspired from my writing circle’s weekly prompt following The Artists Way by Julia Cameron: Write about “who you are” the way you might introduce yourself to a new person or group. Then write an alternate version with this reframe, “Who are you really?”