One of the best things I’ve ever done for myself is to chart my personal seasons.
And today, my winter arrived.
This marks the eighth year since my son’s passing. And while it’s an arbitrary threshold, the minute the clock ticks over to October, I find myself braced for the storm of what’s to come.
Today, I can feel my anxiety in overdrive.
But for the first time, I am ready to face the inevitable waves of grief that have been heading my way.
I can’t call what I’m feeling excitement. But I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude.
It’s an inbetween time. Almost like Zwischen (a term for the final days of pregnancy). There’s an expectation of something that will happen, that will not be great, but that I will get through it, and be more on the other side.
That may be because my preparation for this October started last November.
Last year was the first year that I was very intentional about planning to care for myself through October. I took the first two weeks of the month off entirely. (That plan is mostly the same this year.)
I had a therapist (although not a great one—telehealth is often not the best place to look for mental health care).
I was medicated (although not on what I wanted to be taking. See previous complaint about telehealth).
I had spent a great deal of time and thought curating things that would bring me joy: books, TV shows, arts and crafts, and a bunch of new planners.
I spent many hours planning and purchasing prepackaged food that I could eat even when I didn’t feel like eating. And food that I could eat in bed, that would help me get out of bed.
I had scheduled a few support sessions with people I loved to help hold space for me during those weeks.
And…it was okay.
But I knew I wanted better.
I knew I deserved better.
So I started working on it LAST YEAR.
I found a better therapist.
This man has literally changed my life.
He’d say it’s the modalities—and he’s not totally wrong. Certainly, EMDR, IFS, and microdosing have changed my life. But he’s the one who brought it all together for me.
Save for the microdosing and the weed, I’m unmedicated this year, and feeling…ready.
I started stockpiling the books in The Expanse series after the final book was published. (I might be a little excited about this.) I have literally dozens of new nonfiction books to dive into. I also have a solid list of new shows and movies to escape to. I created a whole evaluation criteria for this that I’ll have to share someday. It’s been a long time since I’ve watched or read something I didn’t completely enjoy.
I started making and freezing soup and gluten-free treats a couple weeks ago. I made so much food that I won’t have to cook for most of the rest of the month if I don’t want to. And I will be supremely well nourished.
I washed and refreshed all of my altars this week, so that they are ready for worship and contemplation. Instead of feeling guilty that they’re dusty, this year, they won’t be.
I intentionally planned hours of deliberate grieving sessions with friends and loved ones this past week, because this time will not go quietly unremarked. It was full of tears, and laughter, and it has been absolutely incredible.
And I baked a birthday cake.
This is something I have always wanted to do, and when the time comes around, I am mired in grief and inertia. So this year, it is already done and in the freezer, just waiting to be thawed. All I’ll have to do tonight is frost. (And I might make my children help if needed.)
I’ve collected so many different puzzle books and craft supplies this year that it’s practically criminal. More importantly, I planned things to do with my children that will get me out of bed: diamond painting, a new board game, and cribbage among them.
I will survive today, and the winter to come.
Because I should still have a few more weeks of good weather (I live in Nebraska—October is always a crapshoot) I’ve planned a few final, joyous activities that will help me ring in my winter well.
For the third year in a row, I’ve opted out of nearly all holiday obligations and preparations. My husband is handling Thanksgiving and presents, and all I have to do is order the catering for Yule and Christmas.
And for the next four months, my days will belong almost entirely to me. I’m doing practically nothing that I don’t want to do.
It’s not all sunshine and roses.
While I’ll still be selling a few things this winter, and I’ve got the quarter all mapped out (I'll talk about all of that in more detail next week), I will not be making what I wanted to this year.
I’m far from alone in this regard, although it can feel that way in the echo chambers of the internet. This year has been rough for a lot of people. If you didn’t have financial buffers before, then things may well feel downright precarious to you. I’m definitely people.
Nevertheless, my rest is not optional.
Taking care of myself is not optional.
I’ll be working shortened hours for the rest of October, and fewer than 15 hours a week in the months of November, December, and January.
My goals are not elaborate.
We will largely be working on filling the docket for NEXT YEAR, because adding more work to my plate is the opposite of my intentions here.
I’ll have a few hours a week of client work, but the rest of my time will be dedicated to writing.
I’ll have as much help as I can afford, both domestically and in my business.
This is much more than mere survival.
This is what thriving looks like without the counterproductive measure of striving that is so frequently added by society.
And I get to say EXACTLY what that looks like.
This week has been without any expectations. I’ve made the bed a few times, but I’ve been living in my nightgowns. I’ve shown up to coworking and tapped out a few words here and there on this piece. I’ve spoken with dragons and napped with my cats. My time has been my own.
This year is the first time that I have not relived that day in excruciating detail. It’s still playing in the background, but I’ve learned enough about myself and my trauma over this past year to be able to control the volume.
I exist in the liminal space between grief and joy, and I am taking it all in, with as much grace and gratitude as I can muster up.
Today will eventually end, and when it does, I will have moved into another page of my story.
In fiction writing, there’s a term—pantsers and plotters. Pantsers write everything by the seat of their pants. They make it all up as they go. Plotters are outliners. They know what’s going to happen before a single word is written.
In life, most people are pantsers. Since you can’t know the future, it’s difficult to plan for it. You just kind of have to keep your eyes open, and hope that there aren’t any unexpected pianos falling out of the sky.
For an autistic person, pantsing is a different kind of trauma. We like knowing what’s going to happen. We like plotting out the shapes of our lives.
But this too is a liminal space.
And the thing about thresholds is that they have their own kind of magic. The trick is learning to exist in both states of being at the same time.
It’s holding the door open for the plan, while letting the unexpected come in to play as well.
So how do you make space in your body for that which is unknowable? How do you make space in your life for the moments that will change you forever?
For me, the key has been creating safety.
I’ve spent much of the past year figuring out what (and who) makes me feel safe. I’ve deliberately constructed boundaries around my most important resources. Time, energy, and money.
For so many of us, safety feels like it’s just out of our reach. Which isn’t hard to understand, given the state of gestures vaguely all of this.
But if it’s not something that is given to us, then it’s something we have to deliberately seek out and find.
Did you know that Maslow never intended for his Hierarchy of Needs to be a pyramid? It’s actually intended to be cyclical in nature.
That’s because our needs evolve as we do.
As we grow, we reach higher and higher than we ever have before. Which means that our foundations have to be stronger than they ever were before.
Of course, that means that we have to understand ourselves and our needs.
And that process is the journey of your lifetime, my friend. It’s the most important work you will ever undertake. Because knowing thyself is how you change the world.
This is how we lead the way into a better future. For ourselves, and for everyone else.
But it’s for ourselves, first.