v.30 The Beauty and Heartbreak of Moving Forward
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll. *This is v.30, please ignore my audio stating that this is v. 29.
mama and me, 16 days before.
Scrolling through the albums on my phone, I see how much life has happened since my family experienced so much loss in 2020. The photos capture birthdays, quiet mornings, unexpected adventures—and small moments I might have otherwise forgotten. But joy and grief are intertwined. I wonder—will time stretch the distance between us so far that I won’t be able to reach her anymore? I think about the way my mother used to FaceTime me, always aiming the camera at her chin. It makes me laugh, even now. But then I wonder—how long before I forget the exact sound of her voice? The way my nephew laughed. Before I stop expecting her name to pop up on my screen?
And then, there is May. Five years since my nephew passed. Five years since my family shifted in a way that could never be fully repaired. Time moves forward, whether we want it to or not. My brothers and I have found a rhythm—one that keeps us connected but doesn’t quite fill the space our mother left behind. She was the glue, the one who made sure we weren’t just siblings, but a family. Without her, we still orbit around each other, but the center is gone. If you’ve lost someone who held your family together, you know this feeling—how love remains but rearranges itself in ways that don’t always make sense.
Maybe thats the thing about loss, it changes some parts of life while leaving others untouched.
My oldest brother, for example, still sends long, back-to-back text messages—paragraphs of thoughts that should really be a phone call. My mom and I used to laugh about it but she never had the heart to tell him. I do. Obviously. But he doesn’t care. He will continue sending six-paragraph texts about everything and nothing, and I will continue responding with a single emoji. Some traditions, it seems, live on.
Loss forces change, whether we realize it or not.
I wouldn’t say that I’m back, but I am becoming. Again. This new version of me isn’t the woman I was before 2020 but I’m something else entirely. I’m still finding my footing, still rebuilding confidence, but now I carry a well of wisdom I didn’t have before. Since then, I’ve traveled Internationally again, created new work, and found a new stride. I’m not fully who I’ll become, but I’m on my way. In the meantime, life has been loud, busy and often full—stages, book signings, writing, and conversations that remind me why I do this work in the first place. And somewhere in between, I’m trying to (still) keep my plants alive. With mixed results, honestly.
And of course, I still hear my mother’s voice before every talk, reminding me to break a leg. (Which, in hindsight, is kind of an intense thing to say. But I never did break my leg, so I guess it worked. I mean, I don’t work in theatre so…) It didn’t matter that this was my full-time job, that I had done it for years—every time, she said it like it was my first time on stage. It was her way of being part of it, of sending me off into the world with her love wrapped around me. She’s not here to say it anymore, but I feel it. Before every talk, I still take a deep breath and imagine her saying it one more time.
Lately, I’ve been thinking more about legacy—not in the grand, dramatic sense, but in the quiet ways we leave pieces of ourselves behind. As my remaining family ages, I think about what stays when the people who shaped us are gone. I have never questioned our decision not to have children, but loss makes you consider what you leave behind. The ways in which we exist in others, even after we’re no longer here. But I suppose that’s a longer conversation for another time.
I also feel strangely writing about my mom and grief so often. When my last book came out, I was intentional about not being known only for my grief. There’s a fine line. And yet, here I am, 5 years in, writing about grief again—because how could I not? Grief is not all of who I am, but it has shaped me. And looking through these photos reminds me that love does not fade; it shifts. The love my mom poured into me didn’t disappear when she did—it became part of me, woven into the fabric of my life. I feel it in the traditions I fight to keep, in the way I hear her voice reminding me that time is precious. And maybe that is the most beautiful, heartbreaking, and hopeful truth of all—life moves forward, and we move with it. Not away from them, but carrying them with us in new ways.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: Realizing I don’t have to force myself to like sardines or sardine pate—no matter how of the moment they are—is a microjoy in itself. The freedom to say, Nope, this shit is gross and not for me (without guilt or peer pressure) is a tiny but mighty win. Some joys are in the things we love, and others? In the things we no longer pretend to tolerate. Fuck that, you remind me of cat food. Sardines, consider yourself officially uninvited from my plate.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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