When to let go and when to dig in

Learning to care for myself during a complicated season

This week’s column is a reflection on the imperfect art of deciding when to release, when to double down, and when to half-ass it. Spoiler alert: I haven’t got it figured out just yet.

Let’s connect this season!

• Interested in joining a small, local women’s writing circle? Get on the interest list for Writing Womanhood, a weekly 90-minute, in-person writing group. 5-week sessions begin in January. Get on the no-commitment interest list to get updates AND weigh in on your preferences and availability here.

• CO locals: Grab your tickets ASAP for Reclamation: The Fempire Strikes Back, at The Muse in Lafayette on 12/5. Buy your tickets this week and save $5 with the promo code: Fempire

It’s the Most Magical Complicated Stressful Disappointing Wonderful Time of the Year

I love the holidays; I really do. I always have, and generally, I go all in. If you’ve followed my Target bird holiday decoration journey, you know this about me. Don’t worry; I’ll share some photos later. My home is half-decorated for the holidays as of this moment, but my piano room is currently my favorite place to sit—it houses the Whimsy Birds, the Merry Birds, the Elegant Birds, and three of our five Christmas trees. A few weeks ago, when my thirteen-year-old and I were deep in post-election grief/despair/rage, we decided to spend twelve hours decorating this one room of our house to balance out our bad feelings. It worked out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

P. S. My college friends sent me a link to buy this shirt, which is my new favorite clothing item, as it pretty much encapsulates the holding of opposites required to be “festive” during a difficult time.

About that. Yes, things are rather difficult, to say the least, on a macro level. Add in some micro-crises, and this has been a hard season of my life. I alluded to this last week in my column (Vague-stacking was the term I coined. Clever, eh? Like Vague-booking on FB? My daughter says it’s less funny when I explain my jokes, so I’ll stop). I had a few “breaking point” moments where I did that thing where you zoom out on situations in your life and are like, “Shit. That really is kind of a trainwreck.”

I know, I know, it’s like an anti-gratitude practice, and that is NEVER a good place to live. We’re supposed to focus on the things that are beautiful and what we are grateful for—fuck’s sake, it’s Thanksgiving this week, zooming in on what we are thankful for is the assignment du jour. If you’ve known me or read my writing for any length of time, you know that I’m an enthusiastic proponent of complaining.

Maybe that’s not quite the right way to say it. I do think there is value in venting, letting it out, expressing ourselves without filtering or curating, commiseration and all that. I think being truthful about our struggles brings us closer together. I am also allergic to toxic positivity.

But I’m truly not a negative person. Joie de vivre is my trademark vibe. I am always finding joy and beauty and silver linings; I am ridiculously optimistic most of the time. While I think “pity party” is reductive, minimizing, and harmful, I occasionally indulge in a practice that allows me to sink into my challenges and hardships and sit there for a bit. Actually, maybe “allow” is the best word. During these rough patches, I let myself get quiet (after crying and/or screaming), and I allow for the reality of the burdens I am carrying.

Right now, I am a full-time working single mother without any meaningful help. There. I said it. I will leave it at that, because ultimately, I decided not to indulge last week’s Vague-stacking allusion to a follow-up post where I burned shit to the ground. I believe that when the time is right, I will engage in more of a deliberate, controlled burn, the kind that invites growth out of decay. Like a forest fire—one that allows for a release that is more healing than it is destructive, and eventually results in new life and fertile ground (creative fertility, that is. This uterus is closed for business).

Right now I am processing the fact that I am carrying more than I expected to be at this moment in time; I am facing down a juggling act that feels impossible, asking for help when it feels demoralizing, and accepting my situation when it feels unjust. Sometimes I am angry. My righteous indignation pours over. Sometimes I feel utterly overwhelmed and helpless. How did I ever think I could pull this off? And sometimes I feel absolutely grateful and joyful and powerful. I allow for it all; I keep trying to lean into the ebbs and flows without panicking. After our dog died in October, I wrote this, and it’s become a mantra of sorts:

I am good at grieving. I let it in. I grieve with my entire body and soul, waking up the next morning with aching ribs and swollen eyes. I give into it like an undertow, but I don’t panic because I remember that I can swim, and I also remember that the waves will tenderly deliver me to the shore when they are done with me.

I will open my eyes with bewilderment. I am on the beach again, there is solid ground beneath me. It is a different shore, I have never been here before. But here I am, and here I will make my home until the next storm.

What to keep and what to trash

I am pulled between digging my heels in to do every-damn-thing and stepping back to give myself more opportunities to rest. It’s complicated, because in some cases, putting things down and releasing burdens Atlas-style is not practical: I am not an overburdened mother who is taking too many Pilates classes or signed up for too many committees. I am working to support myself and my family—this is not an “out-of-balance hobby situation.”

But then comes the holiday season, with its aesthetically pleasing pull of nostalgia and merriment; I am pausing to consider where to put my time and energy. Yes, dammit, I *will* put out every single festive Target bird display and I am 100% doubling down on the idea my youngest and I had to create five themed holiday trees.

I’ve been saying that this is the year I will let go of the holiday cards, but can I really? For nearly two decades I have crusaded to preserve the dying art of the holiday letter. Not just a photo card, a LETTER, including a humorous and hopefully thoughtful chronicle of our year. I spend hours on the photo shoot, design, picture curation, letter writing, and mailing of cards. I don’t have time. I am parenting on my own, working constantly, and struggling as it is to keep the house clean. Don’t even talk to me about the yard. How can I justify this time-consuming tradition? But how could I let it go?

Since COVID, my girls and I have sun and recorded a daily holiday song for our “25 days of carols” social media extravaganza. People love it; it’s fun and silly and sometimes beautiful. But how the hell can I make room for doing something like that when I am spread so thin?

What about the annual holiday party? What about decorating the outside of the house? I’m tired.

I want to do it all, dammit. And not half-ass, whole-ass. But I also don’t want to go under. I don’t know what I’ll do about the cards or the songs or the party or the outdoor decorations. I haven’t decided.

Here’s the only thing I know for sure: I’m going to trust myself. I’m going to repeat the mantra that I know exactly what I need, that I know how to take care of myself, that I am capable of making the right decisions moment to moment and day by day. I’m going to remember that I am a deeply intuitive person, that I am in touch with myself and the needs of my family, and that I have everything I need to keep us afloat, thriving, not just surviving.

I’ll wake up every day and do the next right thing, Ana and Elsa style, and if I end up pivoting by midday, so be it.

Some days I send out a mass SOS that I am sinking. And some days, I create beautiful things like this.

And then, the most magical thing happened. . .

On Friday night, my youngest and I were sitting in this beautiful room listening to Christmas music when there was a knock on the door. It was 11:00 pm. I thought maybe I dreamed it. My inner monologue told me I should probably look through the peephole in case we were about to be victims of a home invasion, but I ignored it like the intuitive dumbass I am and flung the door open to reveal my oldest child, home from college three days early.

She and her boyfriend stood on the steps beaming at us, and my youngest daughter and I started screaming. I know that I will never, ever forget that night for as long as I live. The hugging, shrieking, laughing, and actual jumping up and down lasted for at least five straight minutes. I have never felt so joyful in my entire life—unless you are a parent whose child has moved out for work or college or whatever and then come back, there’s no way to describe what it feels like to have your little nest complete again.

I felt a shift that night as we stayed up until one am, the four of us, eating carrots and macarons (don’t ask) and catching up and telling stories and laughing about the most inappropriate things.

All I could think was, nothing else matters but this. I built this. This is what love looks like. Everything else will fall into place, messily or tidily, slowly or quickly. This is love. This is the joy of living.

XOXO,
Steph

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Fempire: Assemble

This is a storytelling + stand-up comedy show featuring all women, but we aren’t just here to perform. We are starting conversations about topics women don’t generally share. Misogyny and sexism; our crippling need to apologize and ask permission; the way we feel about our bodies; the complexity of motherhood. We want Reclamation to be more than a performance—we want it to be a movement.

1. If you are local, come see the show on Thursday, December 5th to support women in the arts.

2. If you are part of, or know of, an organization that benefits women, single mothers, or the BIPOC and LGBTQ populations, reach out at wordtoyourmotherarts@gmail.com. We are looking for partners to help our community get involved on a local level—when macro change feels hopeless, micro change is the way to go.

3. Do you have a local, women-owned business and want to sponsor Reclamation? We are working with local women whose services and products meet the needs of CO women.

4. We want to make this a bi-monthly event where women get to speak their truths—boldy and unapologetically—on stage in a safe space, witnessed by women who also deserve to have their stories and experiences honored. Our goal is to amplify women’s voices, and we want you to be part of it. If you are a CO writer or comic, stay tuned for opportunities to add your voice to Reclamation for our 2025 shows. And in the meantime, buy tickets here and get on our mailing list here.

5. Interested in joining a small, local women’s writing circle? Get on the interest list for Writing Womanhood, a weekly 90-minute writing group with writing prompts, feedback, meditations, and connection. 5-week sessions begin in January. Sign up (no commitment) to be the first to get updates here.