I don't know how to say this in the way I wish to say it (struggling in the dark morning here, rain sliding down my windows), but, perhaps, this: your writing is as nuanced, complex, and layered as your story is, your discoveries, your wisdoms. It's as if you have pushed back against the ordinary constraints of vocabulary and grammar and found more within the well of language itself.
happy to help :-) here snow. i'm writing with my coat and hat and boots on, laptop on my knees, but out of the corner of my eye there's a foot of snow needing to be shoveled. as soon as i put the gloves on i'll be committed.
Were I closer I would come and help. I would take the top six inches. You would take the bottom. And then the sun would shine. And then the world would be cured. Damn. Someone needs to put us in charge.
Much love to you, Suleika. Your February is my September.
There are certain griefs that arrive not as tidal waves, but as the quiet exhale of a long-held breath. When my father died, I did not collapse beneath the weight of it—I felt something loosen, uncoil. Relief is an ugly word in the face of death, but it is an honest one. The storm had ended, & with it, the strange obligation to pretend I had ever truly been at home in its eye.
I did not belong to the family I was born into. Not in the way a child should—not with the certainty of safe harbour, not with the quiet knowing that love, real love, would hold. Our house was a place of sharp edges, of tempers that flared like struck matches, of love wielded as both currency & consequence. We learned to live under its weight, to breathe in its silences. To survive was to shrink, to make oneself small enough to slip between the cracks unnoticed. & so I did. For years.
But survival is not living & family is not something you should have to endure.
I mourned, but not in the way one mourns a great loss. I mourned the idea of them, the versions I had tried to shape in my mind—gentler, kinder, capable of softness. I mourned the childhood that never was, the warmth that never came. I mourned the sisters who might have been companions, the nieces who might have known me as more than a ghost in the margins.
But love, I have learned, is not owed simply because of blood & grief does not always mean regret.
The turning point was not a single moment but an accumulation of many—waking up & realising the absence of them no longer felt like a wound. Knowing that peace, real peace, is built in the absence of those who disturb it. Standing in my own life, in my own skin, untethered from their expectations, their judgments, their histories.
And yes, some absences linger. Some ghosts do not leave. Some wounds heal but still ache when pressed. This is not a clean break. It never was.
It is simply the choice I made & the choice I continue to make.
Thank you, Carmen. I’m still new to writing—I’ve felt these things for so long, & now I’m learning how to shape them into words. Your response reminds me that they can hold meaning beyond myself, & I’m so grateful for your encouragement. 🖤
Thank you, Rachel. Your words truly mean so much to me. Writing this was an act of truth-telling, & to have it received with such kindness is a gift in itself. I’m still finding my way with writing, but knowing that my words can be seen in this way gives me the confidence to keep going.
Sarah, I’m so grateful that line resonated with you. Some wounds never fully disappear, & I think acknowledging that is its own kind of healing. I appreciate you taking the time to read & share this with me—it means more than I can say.
Thank you, Karen. I’m just beginning to find my way in writing—to take all I’ve felt & turn it into something tangible. Knowing that these words carried weight for you encourages me to keep going.
Thank you, Laurie. Resonance is such a powerful thing—it shows how deeply shared experiences can be felt, even in different lives. I appreciate you reading & sharing this with me.
I grew up in a similar family dynamic and pulled myself away, what I now realize was a form of self-defense against all the cuts and wounds from the sharp edges I grew up with. Thank you for putting it so beautifully. ❤️❤️❤️
Mollie, your words deeply moved me. That instinct for self-defence, for protecting ourselves from all the sharp edges—we carry it in ways we don’t always realise. I’m grateful this piece reached you. May you always find the spaces that feel safe.
Ariana, thank you! That line was a truth I had to learn the hard way, & knowing it resonated with you means so much. I appreciate you reading & sharing this moment with me.
Thank you, Eleanor. Choice has been both a challenge & a gift in my life, & I’m grateful that came through in my words. I really appreciate you taking the time to share this with me.
They break the relationship into twisted bits of sharp metal, and I am the one who always has to leave. Then, it's "my fault." 6 months ago, after a 20 year relationship, I finally had the courage, the "Maryness" to leave. Forgiveness? Nope. That was then, this is now, and I have a life which gives me the space to be unapologetically, "Me" in all my Maryness. I have learned from each of my big endings that the only one I always needed, was me. And the one they worked so hard to stifle, was me. My mom said long ago, "You can only be a doormat, if you lay yourself down first." Damn, she was right. She always was. Well, I am up and I am never laying down again.
Yes! Just important to be self-forgiving. Some doormats are so manipulated and gaslit that they didn't realize they were doormats until things got super complicated and difficult.
Awww, Mary, thank you. It feels really good-scary sometimes, but that's alright. It feels so liberating to be able to parse out emotions, label them, and then commit to making a small, meaningful change.
Linda, thank you. She was. She was the one person in this world, who always loved me for who I was/am. It is almost a year since she died and I love to share, what she shared with me.
Jaqueline, I have made sure to let my daughter know (she is 24 now) that she gets to define her life-who she wants in it, how she wants it to "go," and that being single is an actual choice. A choice that can enrich, provide space for creative endevors, adventure, and that no one "completes" you.
I so appreciate your line, “the only one I always needed was me.” That was one of the revolutionary moments for men my last romantic heartbreak, and it’s a guide for how I figure out challenges I my life now. How to imagine creatively and lovingly and enthusiastically a solo life, or, the life where I am inevitably the only one I know will be at the end of it.
Eleanor, I love, "imagine creatively and lovingly and enthusiastically a solo life." I too, will be the only one at the end of my life as well. It occured to me, that I have not been without a man in my life, since I was 19. I am 63 now. It's my turn.
I was a willing doormat on many occasions, sadly! At the time it felt like closest I could get to a reality that would never come to pass. Hugs, Mary ❤️
Hug received, Sarah and much appreciated. Wow, "At the time it felt like the closest I could get to a reality that would never come to pass." Truth! So beautifully said.
Hello All. Suleika. Thank you so much for your sharing of your loss and bearing witness to the love. "The gift, if we want to call it that, of my illness is that it has right-sized the importance of the stories we tell ourselves about our suffering. And it has taught me again and again the wisdom of my friend Katherine’s words: “Love the people around you. Love the life you have. I can’t think of a more powerful response to life’s sorrows than loving.” I am so grateful for all you write. I lost my late husband in 2010. And next week we celebrate 12 years of our first date with my husband now. ( he lost his late wife in 2011). And I am holding the words you write about your illness close to my heart about mine.
"The more deeply you love, the more deeply you grieve. I have come to believe our capacity for love is infinite, and like love, I believe our capacity for grief is infinite, if we accept it for what it is—as part of the rhythm of life"
I so look forward to these writings every Sunday. They are always full of words to ponder and take to heart. I think this one may be the best one ever. Thank you. Sending love and wishes for you to have a wonderful, magical week.
Once again, your words are a cushion for my anxiety and aching heart, Suleika. I had anxiety dreams all night last night. Things at home are great (my husband and kids make everything better), but the state of this country, my annual case of winter SAD, and work stress is sometimes more than I can bear. I’m going to make every effort to accept the things I can’t change and continue to fight for justice in this country, but I’m sad, and scared, and ready for spring. Sending you love, dear Suleika.
Dear Suleika. The picture of you and Jon is infinitely beautiful and because of how you are turned to each other and because of your words, it reminded me of a favorite song by the Byrds:
To everything turn turn turn
There is a season turn turn turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to be born
A time to die
A time to plant
A time to reap
A time to kill
A time to heal
A time to laugh
A time to weep
May you have the courage and strength to carry on because your grace and beauty are needed in this crazy world..
And your friends' words about surviving are both enlightening and humorous, especially about laying on the bathroom floor and counting ceiling tiles or, God forbid, flies.
Peace, love, music and humor to you always. Even a little football. ♥️♥️
My marriage ended in November, 1993. Concurrently, I was diagnosed with a life-threatening autoimmune disease. I travelled these five stages (in duplicate since I was fighting for me life). Thirty-one years later I can say the end of a really bad marriage, while devastating at the time, opened up a career, friendships and adventures not remotely possible if I was still weighted down and frankly trapped in that dark, confining marriage to a man who was a sociopath. It sounds trite, but grieving the end was a necessary process to enable embracing the light on the other side. Today, all those decades later with many fewer years ahead than behind me, I am grateful I escaped intact, wiser, smarter and funnier, even if it wasn't my idea at the time.
Suleika! Suleika! Suleika! You wonderful, vulnerable champion!! When I left my first marriage, with my 2 boys who were ages 8 and 10. I grieved and grieved, was frightened, anxious, a baby living in a women’s body, and being totally without a partner, and knowing I had to raise my 2 boys alone. Did I have good friends then? Probably not. I began to cultivate great friendships and began to experience a courage within me that I now was cultivating and respecting. The blame and anger didn’t stop after divorce. It took many years to let it go and let go of victimhood. I realized today the world is a cruel and selfish place but I always choose love!
I just want to note my favorite words you shared this morning:
"The gift, if we want to call it that, of my illness is that it has right-sized the importance of the stories we tell ourselves about our suffering."
Every single word is perfect and conveys something universal about this kind of illness.
It's like we MUST tell ourselves stories - these are the first steps in processing what is happening. And then we must immediately loosen the realness of the story. It's just an explanation to myself. And I can absorb that, let the emotions dissolve and check in with myself to ask, "and are we ready to let this go? we really must let go, you know". I gently allow myself let the emotions dissolve. The facts remain, but the emotions will dissolve if we let them.
Something I tell myself often is "Feel it, Heal it, Let it go".
And if I am still in the feeling phase, it's just way to soon to expect letting go. It will come.
Agree - and the prompt was great because often romantic love is a story we tell ourselves too. So the prompt got me writing a ton. I even have a story I tell myself about getting through my own illness - you are right, the facts remain, but the emotions can dissolve and the story can change.
Suleika, you have taught me more than anyone about how to hold the two truths of suffering and love of life at the same time. I needed that this morning Thank you (again)! I look back on an extremely painful time after getting "dumped," and try to dissect my reaction. I think I was trying to run away from the pain of it. Every day after work I went to the high school track and ran laps. I'm not a runner. It's excruciating for me to try. My lungs are smaller than normal for my size and I couldn't even swim five minutes in the swim school pool to pass the class as a child (she passed me anyway for good form). But I ran and I ran, trying to ease the pain and feelings of rejection. After a solid two weeks of this, I gave up. The pain had not remitted in the least. So I befriended the pain and began to heal. Full disclosure: I called and left a message on his answering machine and told him to go to hell. Then I called my pastor and told him what I had done. His words? "What did that scum bag do to you?" LOL That felt good.
Suleika, thank you for sharing this post, so eloquently written. This resonates deeply with me. I never expected to become a widow in my early 40s; my beloved was only 41 when he tragically passed. Grief has a way of blindsiding us, then enmeshing itself into our daily existence. Somehow, by the grace of God, however, we find a way to integrate grief into our lives. It never leaves...always lingering close-by. But as you said, grief is merely an expression of how deeply we have loved. I, too, have found that some days, I also have to give myself the grace to feel my feelings, while reminding myself not get stuck in the often constant sadness & lingering anger that have a way of accompanying grief. At my lowest moments since losing my soulmate, I too have learned that loving more, giving more of myself to my loved ones, my community & most importantly, to myself....has been transformative. Loving more through my darkest moments with grief has allowed me to stay in the light. Thank you for your post - like a much needed hug on a cold, rainy morning. ❤️🫶🏻
My daughter Sara was born on Valentine’s Day. At 23 she was diagnosed with cancer. She died at age 26 on July 17. I loved deeply. . My heart shattered beyond repair. Grief has been my companion for 24.5 years. No words have accurately described the feelings that live within me daily. Yet, Suleika’s introduction to today’s Prompt 325, is as close as humanely possible.
Sara’s death compelled me to become a young adult cancer advocate where I met and befriended, Suleika. What a wondrous gift. Thank you Sara for bringing us together. Thank you Suleika for sharing your story with us through both the pain and the joys. Holding sorrow and joy in one palm is possible. You do it. Sara did it. And, therefore, so can I. Heartbreak comes in all sizes, shapes and timelines. Live every breath. It is worth it. Wrap your heart with love. Our precious memories of the one’s we lost too soon, are the glue that heals and holds our fractured hearts, together, forever and beyond.
You remind me of one another - your drive to share your stories to help other young adults feel seen and heard and your passionate curiosity for life, art and music. I treasure the times our paths have crossed and I love belonging to this beloved community that you brought together. Sending so much love right back at you, dearest Suleika. ❤️
You are SUCH a strong & beautiful warrior, Pat. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Your strength is a TRUE inspiration. Sending all my love to you.
I’ve been forming a letter to you in my head ever since I read your beautiful, transcendent words in Between Two Kingdoms. I want to tell you how I hold you in my heart and spirit, how your spirit inspires me, how your creative energy brings joy to this world, how your courage and hard-earned wisdom give me hope and ground me in my journey as my husband’s caregiver. He was diagnosed with AML one year ago, endured a successful stem cell transplant in June and continues on monthly maintenance therapy. We choose love every precious day. You have helped me live with the “ocean of uncertainty” as you put it so beautifully. Your description today about grief hits me exactly right. Your perspective aligns with my experience and somehow makes me feel connected to you on a spiritual level, as a human being walking between two kingdoms.
Yes, we each are simple earthlings, but I need you to know how your spirit has touched and helped mine. My husband and I send you our heartfelt love and gratitude, and wishes for joy to you and Jon. 🫶
I don't know how to say this in the way I wish to say it (struggling in the dark morning here, rain sliding down my windows), but, perhaps, this: your writing is as nuanced, complex, and layered as your story is, your discoveries, your wisdoms. It's as if you have pushed back against the ordinary constraints of vocabulary and grammar and found more within the well of language itself.
So grateful for these kind words, Beth—much love to you!
and to you, Suleika. and to you.
this should be a blurb for suleika's next book jacket!
Judi, you just made me smile. Which was a hard thing to do. In this time and on this day of endless rain.
happy to help :-) here snow. i'm writing with my coat and hat and boots on, laptop on my knees, but out of the corner of my eye there's a foot of snow needing to be shoveled. as soon as i put the gloves on i'll be committed.
Were I closer I would come and help. I would take the top six inches. You would take the bottom. And then the sun would shine. And then the world would be cured. Damn. Someone needs to put us in charge.
Just a beautiful ray of sunshine ☀️ this exchange! Beth, I do love how you captured the essence of Suleika’s writing .. ❤️
To the sun. Wherever we might find it. Xoxo
Sending you smiles, Beth. More smiles :)
How beautiful, sincere and wise your words are too, Beth. 🤎🌈
Thank you so much, Mel.
Much love to you, Suleika. Your February is my September.
There are certain griefs that arrive not as tidal waves, but as the quiet exhale of a long-held breath. When my father died, I did not collapse beneath the weight of it—I felt something loosen, uncoil. Relief is an ugly word in the face of death, but it is an honest one. The storm had ended, & with it, the strange obligation to pretend I had ever truly been at home in its eye.
I did not belong to the family I was born into. Not in the way a child should—not with the certainty of safe harbour, not with the quiet knowing that love, real love, would hold. Our house was a place of sharp edges, of tempers that flared like struck matches, of love wielded as both currency & consequence. We learned to live under its weight, to breathe in its silences. To survive was to shrink, to make oneself small enough to slip between the cracks unnoticed. & so I did. For years.
But survival is not living & family is not something you should have to endure.
I mourned, but not in the way one mourns a great loss. I mourned the idea of them, the versions I had tried to shape in my mind—gentler, kinder, capable of softness. I mourned the childhood that never was, the warmth that never came. I mourned the sisters who might have been companions, the nieces who might have known me as more than a ghost in the margins.
But love, I have learned, is not owed simply because of blood & grief does not always mean regret.
The turning point was not a single moment but an accumulation of many—waking up & realising the absence of them no longer felt like a wound. Knowing that peace, real peace, is built in the absence of those who disturb it. Standing in my own life, in my own skin, untethered from their expectations, their judgments, their histories.
And yes, some absences linger. Some ghosts do not leave. Some wounds heal but still ache when pressed. This is not a clean break. It never was.
It is simply the choice I made & the choice I continue to make.
This is so powerful, Kim. Thank you for sharing your experience and the wisdom you have gleaned from it ❤️
Thank you, Carmen. I’m still new to writing—I’ve felt these things for so long, & now I’m learning how to shape them into words. Your response reminds me that they can hold meaning beyond myself, & I’m so grateful for your encouragement. 🖤
What you have is a gift of words. Your love and peace with expression is yours forever.
I so agree ✨
Thank you, Rachel. Your words truly mean so much to me. Writing this was an act of truth-telling, & to have it received with such kindness is a gift in itself. I’m still finding my way with writing, but knowing that my words can be seen in this way gives me the confidence to keep going.
Your writing is beautiful "...some wounds heal but ache when pressed." That resonated deeply. Thank you for sharing a part of your life with us ❤️
Sarah, I’m so grateful that line resonated with you. Some wounds never fully disappear, & I think acknowledging that is its own kind of healing. I appreciate you taking the time to read & share this with me—it means more than I can say.
Kim, this is simply stunning writing. All of your words have such a beautiful expressive weight to them. Thank you for sharing this. ❤️
Thank you, Karen. I’m just beginning to find my way in writing—to take all I’ve felt & turn it into something tangible. Knowing that these words carried weight for you encourages me to keep going.
Thank you for this! I soooooooo relate!
Marisol, thank you for this. Knowing that my words reflected something you’ve felt makes writing them all the more meaningful.
Kim this is beautifully written. So much of what you said resonates with me.
Thank you, Laurie. Resonance is such a powerful thing—it shows how deeply shared experiences can be felt, even in different lives. I appreciate you reading & sharing this with me.
I grew up in a similar family dynamic and pulled myself away, what I now realize was a form of self-defense against all the cuts and wounds from the sharp edges I grew up with. Thank you for putting it so beautifully. ❤️❤️❤️
Mollie, your words deeply moved me. That instinct for self-defence, for protecting ourselves from all the sharp edges—we carry it in ways we don’t always realise. I’m grateful this piece reached you. May you always find the spaces that feel safe.
“peace, real peace, is built in the absence of those who disturb it” :::SNAPS::: so much yes! Ooh how very powerful. Thank You.
Ariana, thank you! That line was a truth I had to learn the hard way, & knowing it resonated with you means so much. I appreciate you reading & sharing this moment with me.
Love your celebrations of the power of choice, and the power you always have to make it.
Thank you, Eleanor. Choice has been both a challenge & a gift in my life, & I’m grateful that came through in my words. I really appreciate you taking the time to share this with me.
They break the relationship into twisted bits of sharp metal, and I am the one who always has to leave. Then, it's "my fault." 6 months ago, after a 20 year relationship, I finally had the courage, the "Maryness" to leave. Forgiveness? Nope. That was then, this is now, and I have a life which gives me the space to be unapologetically, "Me" in all my Maryness. I have learned from each of my big endings that the only one I always needed, was me. And the one they worked so hard to stifle, was me. My mom said long ago, "You can only be a doormat, if you lay yourself down first." Damn, she was right. She always was. Well, I am up and I am never laying down again.
So true Mary. I’ve been that doormat too and no more.
Laurie, isn't the view so magnificent, when we stand up?
Yes! Just important to be self-forgiving. Some doormats are so manipulated and gaslit that they didn't realize they were doormats until things got super complicated and difficult.
Marisol, that is all so true. I have been that doormat.
Being all you are in your “Maryness” is wonderful, Mary. ❤️
Awww, Mary, thank you. It feels really good-scary sometimes, but that's alright. It feels so liberating to be able to parse out emotions, label them, and then commit to making a small, meaningful change.
What a wise mother! ❤️
Linda, thank you. She was. She was the one person in this world, who always loved me for who I was/am. It is almost a year since she died and I love to share, what she shared with me.
Sharing your mother’s wisdom…such a beautiful way to honour her and keep her alive within you. ❤️
Karen, thank you. What a beautiful way for me to think of how she lives in me.
Amen and again I say amen!!!!
Jaqueline, I have made sure to let my daughter know (she is 24 now) that she gets to define her life-who she wants in it, how she wants it to "go," and that being single is an actual choice. A choice that can enrich, provide space for creative endevors, adventure, and that no one "completes" you.
No more shrinking to fit. Not for ourselves and not for our daughters. Thank you, Mary.
Jacqueline D. B., Yes! "No more shrinking to fit." Okay, that may just be my new internal self-talk pep talk. Thank you.
I so appreciate your line, “the only one I always needed was me.” That was one of the revolutionary moments for men my last romantic heartbreak, and it’s a guide for how I figure out challenges I my life now. How to imagine creatively and lovingly and enthusiastically a solo life, or, the life where I am inevitably the only one I know will be at the end of it.
Eleanor, I love, "imagine creatively and lovingly and enthusiastically a solo life." I too, will be the only one at the end of my life as well. It occured to me, that I have not been without a man in my life, since I was 19. I am 63 now. It's my turn.
I was a willing doormat on many occasions, sadly! At the time it felt like closest I could get to a reality that would never come to pass. Hugs, Mary ❤️
Hug received, Sarah and much appreciated. Wow, "At the time it felt like the closest I could get to a reality that would never come to pass." Truth! So beautifully said.
Hello All. Suleika. Thank you so much for your sharing of your loss and bearing witness to the love. "The gift, if we want to call it that, of my illness is that it has right-sized the importance of the stories we tell ourselves about our suffering. And it has taught me again and again the wisdom of my friend Katherine’s words: “Love the people around you. Love the life you have. I can’t think of a more powerful response to life’s sorrows than loving.” I am so grateful for all you write. I lost my late husband in 2010. And next week we celebrate 12 years of our first date with my husband now. ( he lost his late wife in 2011). And I am holding the words you write about your illness close to my heart about mine.
"The more deeply you love, the more deeply you grieve. I have come to believe our capacity for love is infinite, and like love, I believe our capacity for grief is infinite, if we accept it for what it is—as part of the rhythm of life"
I so look forward to these writings every Sunday. They are always full of words to ponder and take to heart. I think this one may be the best one ever. Thank you. Sending love and wishes for you to have a wonderful, magical week.
❤️❤️❤️
Once again, your words are a cushion for my anxiety and aching heart, Suleika. I had anxiety dreams all night last night. Things at home are great (my husband and kids make everything better), but the state of this country, my annual case of winter SAD, and work stress is sometimes more than I can bear. I’m going to make every effort to accept the things I can’t change and continue to fight for justice in this country, but I’m sad, and scared, and ready for spring. Sending you love, dear Suleika.
Much love to you Becky.
Thank you. And back to you! ❤️
Dear Suleika. The picture of you and Jon is infinitely beautiful and because of how you are turned to each other and because of your words, it reminded me of a favorite song by the Byrds:
To everything turn turn turn
There is a season turn turn turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to be born
A time to die
A time to plant
A time to reap
A time to kill
A time to heal
A time to laugh
A time to weep
May you have the courage and strength to carry on because your grace and beauty are needed in this crazy world..
And your friends' words about surviving are both enlightening and humorous, especially about laying on the bathroom floor and counting ceiling tiles or, God forbid, flies.
Peace, love, music and humor to you always. Even a little football. ♥️♥️
My marriage ended in November, 1993. Concurrently, I was diagnosed with a life-threatening autoimmune disease. I travelled these five stages (in duplicate since I was fighting for me life). Thirty-one years later I can say the end of a really bad marriage, while devastating at the time, opened up a career, friendships and adventures not remotely possible if I was still weighted down and frankly trapped in that dark, confining marriage to a man who was a sociopath. It sounds trite, but grieving the end was a necessary process to enable embracing the light on the other side. Today, all those decades later with many fewer years ahead than behind me, I am grateful I escaped intact, wiser, smarter and funnier, even if it wasn't my idea at the time.
So powerful to hear this changed perspective. Beautiful too ❤️
Suleika! Suleika! Suleika! You wonderful, vulnerable champion!! When I left my first marriage, with my 2 boys who were ages 8 and 10. I grieved and grieved, was frightened, anxious, a baby living in a women’s body, and being totally without a partner, and knowing I had to raise my 2 boys alone. Did I have good friends then? Probably not. I began to cultivate great friendships and began to experience a courage within me that I now was cultivating and respecting. The blame and anger didn’t stop after divorce. It took many years to let it go and let go of victimhood. I realized today the world is a cruel and selfish place but I always choose love!
You are amazing! That is a lot to work with and overcome.
Thank you Marisol. It was a huge and courageous act and scary
I just want to note my favorite words you shared this morning:
"The gift, if we want to call it that, of my illness is that it has right-sized the importance of the stories we tell ourselves about our suffering."
Every single word is perfect and conveys something universal about this kind of illness.
It's like we MUST tell ourselves stories - these are the first steps in processing what is happening. And then we must immediately loosen the realness of the story. It's just an explanation to myself. And I can absorb that, let the emotions dissolve and check in with myself to ask, "and are we ready to let this go? we really must let go, you know". I gently allow myself let the emotions dissolve. The facts remain, but the emotions will dissolve if we let them.
Something I tell myself often is "Feel it, Heal it, Let it go".
And if I am still in the feeling phase, it's just way to soon to expect letting go. It will come.
Sending love.
Agree - and the prompt was great because often romantic love is a story we tell ourselves too. So the prompt got me writing a ton. I even have a story I tell myself about getting through my own illness - you are right, the facts remain, but the emotions can dissolve and the story can change.
Suleika, you have taught me more than anyone about how to hold the two truths of suffering and love of life at the same time. I needed that this morning Thank you (again)! I look back on an extremely painful time after getting "dumped," and try to dissect my reaction. I think I was trying to run away from the pain of it. Every day after work I went to the high school track and ran laps. I'm not a runner. It's excruciating for me to try. My lungs are smaller than normal for my size and I couldn't even swim five minutes in the swim school pool to pass the class as a child (she passed me anyway for good form). But I ran and I ran, trying to ease the pain and feelings of rejection. After a solid two weeks of this, I gave up. The pain had not remitted in the least. So I befriended the pain and began to heal. Full disclosure: I called and left a message on his answering machine and told him to go to hell. Then I called my pastor and told him what I had done. His words? "What did that scum bag do to you?" LOL That felt good.
Suleika, thank you for sharing this post, so eloquently written. This resonates deeply with me. I never expected to become a widow in my early 40s; my beloved was only 41 when he tragically passed. Grief has a way of blindsiding us, then enmeshing itself into our daily existence. Somehow, by the grace of God, however, we find a way to integrate grief into our lives. It never leaves...always lingering close-by. But as you said, grief is merely an expression of how deeply we have loved. I, too, have found that some days, I also have to give myself the grace to feel my feelings, while reminding myself not get stuck in the often constant sadness & lingering anger that have a way of accompanying grief. At my lowest moments since losing my soulmate, I too have learned that loving more, giving more of myself to my loved ones, my community & most importantly, to myself....has been transformative. Loving more through my darkest moments with grief has allowed me to stay in the light. Thank you for your post - like a much needed hug on a cold, rainy morning. ❤️🫶🏻
“Loving more through my darkest moments with grief has allowed me to stay in the light”—love this so much ❤️❤️
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My daughter Sara was born on Valentine’s Day. At 23 she was diagnosed with cancer. She died at age 26 on July 17. I loved deeply. . My heart shattered beyond repair. Grief has been my companion for 24.5 years. No words have accurately described the feelings that live within me daily. Yet, Suleika’s introduction to today’s Prompt 325, is as close as humanely possible.
Sara’s death compelled me to become a young adult cancer advocate where I met and befriended, Suleika. What a wondrous gift. Thank you Sara for bringing us together. Thank you Suleika for sharing your story with us through both the pain and the joys. Holding sorrow and joy in one palm is possible. You do it. Sara did it. And, therefore, so can I. Heartbreak comes in all sizes, shapes and timelines. Live every breath. It is worth it. Wrap your heart with love. Our precious memories of the one’s we lost too soon, are the glue that heals and holds our fractured hearts, together, forever and beyond.
Thank you, Pat, for sharing Sara’s story, for your advocacy, and for your gorgeous heart. Sending you so much love ❤️
You remind me of one another - your drive to share your stories to help other young adults feel seen and heard and your passionate curiosity for life, art and music. I treasure the times our paths have crossed and I love belonging to this beloved community that you brought together. Sending so much love right back at you, dearest Suleika. ❤️
Joy & pain in one palm.
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You are SUCH a strong & beautiful warrior, Pat. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Your strength is a TRUE inspiration. Sending all my love to you.
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It’s so amazing the way pain shapes and softens us. Like water and river rocks. Beautiful writing Suleika! 💓
Suleika,
I’ve been forming a letter to you in my head ever since I read your beautiful, transcendent words in Between Two Kingdoms. I want to tell you how I hold you in my heart and spirit, how your spirit inspires me, how your creative energy brings joy to this world, how your courage and hard-earned wisdom give me hope and ground me in my journey as my husband’s caregiver. He was diagnosed with AML one year ago, endured a successful stem cell transplant in June and continues on monthly maintenance therapy. We choose love every precious day. You have helped me live with the “ocean of uncertainty” as you put it so beautifully. Your description today about grief hits me exactly right. Your perspective aligns with my experience and somehow makes me feel connected to you on a spiritual level, as a human being walking between two kingdoms.
Yes, we each are simple earthlings, but I need you to know how your spirit has touched and helped mine. My husband and I send you our heartfelt love and gratitude, and wishes for joy to you and Jon. 🫶
Beautiful words. I hold you in my heart.