Permission to Be Human

I went for a walk with another bereaved mom over the summer. I don’t know her well – our husbands know one another professionally. I do not recall exactly how we found out their eldest son, a young adult, was killed, but it is the grief connection – that gritty, real-life element we have in common – which eventually led to our meeting a couple of years ago. And then this walk together on a Saturday morning.

As with any new acquaintance and those first few encounters between you, you are aware of being on uncertain ground as you ask questions, share stories. The fact that we have both lost children, we like to exercise, we are both reasonably active and engaged people — those give us a bond, and yet: are we otherwise similar enough (or open enough) that we want – or need? – to be closer friends? What is it that she needs from me, from other humans, especially right now? What is it that I need?

And why do you always feel, somewhere deep down inside, like that¬†little 9 (or maybe 13…15…18) year old that was you – brand new to a class, a school, a neighborhood, a situation – and trying to figure out the ropes?¬†

Middle School Emily

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