Don-ations
Ever since I was a kid, I've always been called the sensitive one because of my inability to hide any emotion. Fast forward to my adult years and I'm no longer trying to hide what I'm feeling, I'm wearing my emotions like a badge of honor and using them as tools to help me navigate this crazy and chaotic yet beautiful life. This podcast is simple, I'm going to share simple stories that have taught me some great lessons. I'll share tips that I'm implementing to become the best version of myself. I'll share with you what's helped me navigate dating, relationships, family and friendship dynamics, love, and self discovery. And I'll dive into the human experience, whether just me or with guests, and hopefully shed some light, for you and me, on what the meaning of life just might be. I'm not trying to make it look like I have all the answers, I'm just trying to make it known I'm on this amazing ride too, right there by your side.
Don-ations
I didn’t expect to grieve the growth, but here we are
Feeling the absence of someone really helped me recognize where grief was in other parts of my life, and what emerged from reflecting on it is this idea that grief isn't solely about what we've lost, but about seeing what remains more clearly. Music by DayFox on Pixabay.
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I used to think grief was only about missing something, but now I'm wondering if it can also be about seeing something more clearly, because we know what it's like not to have it anymore. What's up, my friends? Welcome back to Donations. It's your host, donovan, and the fact that we're already in September is so mind-boggling to me. Literally everyone on TikTok is posting about cozy, rainy, leaf-crunching fall weather. Talking about, I am an autumn when I'm fully prepared to be experiencing the high 80s and mid 90 degree weather until early or mid-November. But it's good because I'm not done being outside just yet. But at the same time there's a part of me that feels like I'm a little bit kind of being robbed of the magic of the burr months. Well, yes, and no right. I mean, we have our own kind of burr month magic down here in the South. We definitely do still feel and see the changing of the season too. It's just a little different. But speaking on changes in season, sometimes those can be really hard to process, depending on what kind you're walking into or coming out of. When you're leaving someone or something behind, or even a part of yourself, it feels like grief, and that's what we're sitting with today. I still have such a hard time when I think about Jet. That little, handsome, special man was my literal shadow and my best friend for nine years. Nine pivotal years, mind you. Years full of downs and ups and growth and heartbreak and joy. You know life. He wasn't just a staple in my life, he was a staple that literally held it all together.
Speaker 1:I remember the morning of the day it all went down. My dad and I were outside working on the yard and I was pretending I wasn't spiraling while dragging a rake around. I was expecting a call from the vet and I was imagining that I'd hear. I was expecting a call from the vet and I was imagining that I'd hear. He's stable, we've got him on meds and he'll be home soon. And I finally did get the call. I just didn't get that message. Instead, I was told he was in a lot of pain and that he was too far gone and the most responsible, loving thing I could do was help him out of it.
Speaker 1:I remember calling my tribe to let them know, because they were waiting for him to come home too, and I could tell it took them off guard as much as it did me when I told them. Only they were immediately in the bargaining phase. You know the one where you try to change the inevitable. And I probably would have bargained too. But what the vet said just kept replaying in my head the best thing you can do is stop the pain. So to keep from breaking down, I kept those calls short.
Speaker 1:I told everyone I had to go to the vet that afternoon and give my permission to put him down. Mind you, the afternoon was only a couple hours away and of course I had plenty of offers from family and friends to go with me, to be there to support me, just to hold my hand or be beside me. But all I could think about was how I had quietly slipped away from a family gathering to go pick Jet up when he was a puppy and the moment he and I shared when our eyes met for the first time. So it just being me and him at the end felt like the best possible option, the only possible option, and it was kind of like survival mode had kicked in. Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I think it kicked in.
Speaker 1:The second I answered the vet's call that morning Because from there it was just one foot in front of the other, keep it together, handle the logistics and don't fall apart yet. And it's wild to me how fast we do that. Our literal world could be falling apart, but our brains just like. We're not doing the feelings thing right now let's circle back on that later and only having one option helping my little man out the only way I could just felt like this call of responsibility. So I went and I laid with him on the floor until he fell asleep. And that's when the survival instinct shut off and everything hit me all at once. And in that wave of emotion, being crushed under that weight, I kissed him one last time and left him and my puddle of tears behind and got in my truck home. It was insane. It didn't feel real. It still feels like a dream sometimes when I think about it, and the waking up part is like being hit with those feelings all over again.
Speaker 1:That's grief. It comes and it goes, but I've learned how to sit with it when it is present. I think if I hadn't learned that, I wouldn't have been able to see how much I was missing. And here's the thing this isn't just about losing my dog and the grief I've been carrying because of it. It's about how I've started to recognize grief in general when it shows up, how grief has started to reveal itself in places I didn't even think to look. That's what this is about, and I'm referring to the kinds of grief that don't come with the funeral, not to say the grief that does isn't important, because of course it is.
Speaker 1:But I think there are other kinds of grief that hit just as hard. We just don't always talk about them in the same way. The kind of grief that sneaks into your routines or your relationships or your self-image or your seasons. The kind of grief we might not always recognize but that we definitely still feel. You know, one of the first ways I noticed grief hanging around was with my friends, not because something bad happened, just because all of a sudden no one was free on the same weekend for like six months straight. And suddenly I'm staring at an empty Saturday, like is this how people end up at Home Depot just for fun? Like is this the gateway drug to seasonal wreaths? Because if that's the case, honestly, I think I started that a while back already.
Speaker 1:But whether plans were made or not, weekends and sometimes weekdays were always reserved for the group. You know, I like to think, my friends and I really took pride in our group. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it felt like family and we rode hard for each other. We rode together through the trials and tribulations of life in our 20s and we held hands entering our 30s and I mean we are still like a family in some ways. It's just that we're now in what my imaginary sister, mel Robbins, calls the Great Scattering. We're all going in different directions now, living in different places, we're on different timelines and we're moving at different paces, at different paces. It's like life is pulling and pushing and calling each of us from different corners of the world and this foundation we built and stood on for so long and kind of measured ourselves against is gone and it hasn't been easy to move through.
Speaker 1:Sometimes I catch myself asking is this how it's supposed to be Like? Are we meant to grow apart from the people who felt like our world not that long ago? And am I the only one that's feeling this? Is it just because I'm sensitive and with how much we meant to each other? I can't be right. I can't be the only one, and I think about the times I'd just show up halfway through a plan that someone else made and no one even blinked. I didn't RSVP or nothing, it was just me sliding into the group like what are we doing, or where are we eating, or whose house are we at?
Speaker 1:And now, without that constant, I notice how much of my time is mine again and, honestly, outside of responsibilities, I don't always know what to do with it. I mean, I do things. I still have friends and still hang out. I'm not like a loner, I promise I'm not like a loner. I promise I still get invited to things Occasionally.
Speaker 1:I think it's just, I'm not gonna lie, it's kind of lonely sometimes with how much the group chat isn't popping off and I honestly didn't see it coming. I thought we were different. I thought we'd outlast all the other groups. And don't get me wrong, I mean there is still a sort of presence. You know social media helps and of course the one-on-one check-ins do too, but even those at times feel too scarce for comfort. And all of a sudden I find myself in that moment where I realize the group of people I used to see every week I now see one or two once a month if I'm lucky. And now the question what's new is asked every time, and not that anything is wrong with that question. It's just that we never had to ask it before Because we were always clued into each other's lives, and asking it now is kind of like an uncomfortable reminder that things have shifted. But what I'm learning is that a shift doesn't mean loss. Even though I'm grieving what once was this heavy presence in my life doesn't mean it can't still be honored. Come on, this is donations. You knew there was a pivot coming. Come on, this is donations. You knew there was a pivot coming.
Speaker 1:Maybe this space between each of us can teach us something about presence, like when life only opens up enough for a once a month catch up. Maybe that moment hits harder, maybe it becomes more sacred, more intentional, and maybe we cheer a little louder for each other from each of our corners of the world, wherever we are. And maybe we're learning to stop taking those moments for granted, because, as much as it sucks, as much as I don't really like it, I'm here, I'm in it. There's really no going back or really no use in pushing and pulling against the forces that be that got us here in the first place. This is normal growing pains and I hate to minimize it like that, because it really has been a heavy realization. But, like I said, if I let it teach me something, I'll most definitely come out on the other side a whole lot better. Who knows, maybe it's all protecting us from something we're not seeing right, a part of the future that's softer on us because some parts of our lives no longer fit or leave space for what's to come. And in situations like these that leave more questions than they grant answers, really life is asking us to loosen our grip or to let go altogether about missing something. But now I'm wondering if it can also be about seeing something more clearly, because we know what it's like not to have it anymore.
Speaker 1:I miss the part of me that didn't spend my Saturdays knowing I'm behind on emails, tbh. That version of me that didn't stare at a half-loaded dishwasher thinking about health insurance premiums or whether the latest news headline means that the market's crashing again, or if someone I love is going to lose their job because the economy's doing that thing where it pretends to stretch and then snaps back like a rubber band, or whatever they call it. Back then, weekends were weekends right. Now they're just like quieter Mondays in disguise, haunted by the ghost of unfinished tasks or whatever. I miss the version of me who didn't worry about things like credit scores or Roth IRAs or interest rates or whether the storm on the East Coast will affect the price of eggs. I miss the version of me who didn't wake up tired, not exhausted, not drained, really just already behind before the day even starts. I miss the version of me who could go to sleep without wondering what happens if the job goes away. What happens if I get sick? Will I still be okay? Will the people I love be okay?
Speaker 1:I miss the version of me who didn't know so much, because once you know about climate change or about systemic inequality, about how much rent costs in cities you used to dream of, once you know all those things, you can't unknow them, and sometimes that knowing sits heavy in your chest, even on the best days, even when you're out trying to just enjoy yourself. Sometimes it feels like adulthood is just a never-ending series of quiet doomsday drills. And I know, I know these things matter. These are important things. They're good to know. I know that awareness is important, but when every day is a new hypothetical and every headline feels like a forecast of disaster, it's hard to remember how to live. Who laughed without double-checking the budget or danced without checking the time is still somewhere in here, just maybe buried under calendar reminders and cortisol. And it's funny.
Speaker 1:I used to be terrified of the dark. Maybe I am still, but like shut my eyes tight, hold my breath, sprint down the hallway kind of scared, as if closing my eyes made the dark less dark or the hallway shorter, whatever. I just hated it. You don't know what's in the dark. You don't know what's in the dark. It literally could be anything. It could be monsters, shadows, bad news, bills a text from your ex. I literally remember being like 13 and my nephew was about three or so and my sister mentioned how he wasn't scared of anything, how he'd walk through pitch black hallway without hesitation, and I told her, yeah, because he doesn't know. Yet he doesn't know what could be hiding in those corners.
Speaker 1:And it wasn't that I was being dramatic, that's not the case.
Speaker 1:It was that I knew too much case. It was that I knew too much, and I think that's the root of a lot of what I've been feeling lately, that grief for the version of me who didn't know yet, who wasn't carrying all these crazy doomsday headlines, or the weight of adulthood, or the soft panic that lives behind almost every notification that pops up on your phone. It's kind of a weird grief, grieving the version of me who didn't have to brace all the time. And it's not just the innocent version of me I miss Sometimes don't judge me but I miss the version of me who was deep in it, the broke, heartbroken or overwhelmed version of me Screaming into the steering wheel in a random parking lot version of me screaming into the steering wheel in a random parking lot version of me. Because that version of me was holding on by a thread, sure, but he was on the cusp of something. It's like he was just one sunrise away from relief, or one phone call away from the clarity he needed so badly, or just one more breakdown away from breakthrough.
Speaker 1:And sometimes I miss the version of me who cried at the drop of a hat, who saw a puppy and instantly teared up, the version of me who could access his emotions without needing a damn password, needing a damn password. Now I feel like I'm locked out, like there's a gate around my feelings and no one's given me the new code. And maybe, just maybe, it's just the season I'm in right. But I started wondering is that just me? Is it just me who recognizes or feels that kind of grief? I was curious if anyone else felt it. So I asked my friend Amber is there a version of you who you still think about sometimes, and what does it feel like to grieve her, even while being proud of who you are now?
Speaker 2:Pretty much in my 20s, my whole 20s. I think about my 20s a lot. I was kind of newly single at that time and I was experiencing life as a single mom and I had my own house with my boys and I had a great job at one point and I just had to I wouldn't necessarily say grow up, because I was so immature in a lot of ways as well Like I was just crazy. I mean, I was more mature than a lot of my friends because I did have children, but I was so responsible for my boys, like I took care of them very well. I made sure they had everything that they needed, wanted, I made sure they looked good all the time and loved them so much. We were basically growing up together like almost like brother and sister, sometimes because I would pick on them or they would like pick on me and whatever. But you know, I was still mom, especially when I needed to be mom. I was. I was mom.
Speaker 2:I was really wild and free in my 20s when I had my own personal life, when my boys would be with their dad on the weekends. I was just like my own person. I had my whole house to myself. I did whatever I wanted to do, ate whatever I wanted to eat, woke up when I wanted to wake up. If I didn't have work the next morning, I just was so free and to live like that for like so long, it was just crazy, like just alone and quiet. Whenever, you know, my kids weren't there and then I mean I had a lot of friends and I, we did a lot of friends and we did a lot of stuff, but like I was alone a lot too. So I miss those times, mainly because of the freedom. But I don't miss those times because I was lonely, where I didn't have, like, my significant other, so I didn't feel complete in a lot of ways, which is kind of crazy to say or feel, but like that's how I felt.
Speaker 2:I've had boyfriends and I've had people that I would date and stuff, but you know, nothing's like having an actual like person. You know that's not gonna go anywhere, that is stuck with you and I was wanting that. Um, you know, sometimes you talk to these people, like these guys, when you're single and they just have you around when they want to have you around, and some of them could have probably been boyfriend material but like not daddy material and I needed someone to be a daddy too. Um, and then I had my dog, my big dog, marley and not all guys like dogs, and you know I kept my life, my personal life, even my dog, like that's my life, you know, and like that's all I knew that they were going to be is just like on my free time kind of boyfriend, and I miss that. Like I missed having somebody there for my personal. You know issues and just me being me, so I really don't like grieve too much on, you know, the past of like my 20ss even though I think about that younger me a lot. Um, I just miss, or think about, um, the freedom. But I'm just so happy where I'm at now where I do have someone that I can call to tell them anything that's going on. He might not hear me sometimes because he's working, but at least I can like still tell him when he comes home. Um, I don't have to tell him right away when it happens, but eventually I get to tell him and talk to him and um, it's just so nice having someone to just be there for me.
Speaker 2:24, seven, I love that. Like that's what I've always wanted and I got it. I mean, we're not always, you know, great, but like, at least I still know that he will be there for me. So I'm just happy about that, that I don't have that um emptiness anymore and I'm busy so much of the time.
Speaker 2:My life is crazy, it's hectic, but I still pick now versus then and I think about then a lot because of how independent I was and how fun, how much fun I had and, like all my friends and, like you know, I miss all that. But then I'm just like, uh, I I'm just so grateful I I got to experience it, I got to experience all of that. It's just nothing compares to those nights versus the nights that I have now. Like I'd go to bed like alone, my mind alone, everything alone, and even though I had all these people around me who loved me, who wanted me around, who had fun with me, like even though I had all of that, I was still alone, like in my head. I was still alone, like in my head. I don't take for granted anything that I have now with my kids and my family and my dogs, my pets, but that would be the younger version I think of quite often.
Speaker 1:Here's probably the wildest part. Things are fine, peaceful, even. This is a great season for me. But with peace like that comes quiet, which is probably why some of this grief is surfacing, because peace makes space for the things we didn't have time to feel before. And with quiet comes the weird question of where will my next growth spurt come from? And I know that sounds a little messed up, but maybe that's the new edge I'm standing on now, like a different kind of growth, one that doesn't require chaos to prove that it's happening. Chaos to prove that it's happening, it's about learning how to grow in the calm too.
Speaker 1:But damn, sometimes I miss the fight. And sometimes I miss the version of me who made up ridiculous, exciting, over-fantasized stories of living my dreams in my head and who acted like he was already living them. It was literally a form of manifestation. Okay, I miss the version of me who went to Walmart on a Friday night and bought 10 boxes of cereal he'd never tried before just to rate them and post the results for his like four friends on Snapchat. I miss the version of me who wasn't looking for fun. He was just having it. Not that my life isn't fun now Don't get it twisted because it is, it just looks different. Maybe I'll start rating candles the way that I used to rate cereal, like 10 out of 10, throw that one. Or 6 out of 10, throw that one. Or six out of 10 that top note is really good. Or like nine out of 10 would definitely cry to that again, because lord knows when those three wicks go on sale at bb dubs. I've got my coupon ready and my basket full.
Speaker 1:And sometimes, when your version of fun doesn't match what someone else is posting on their Instagram story, it can make your own joy feel smaller, less photogenic or like less worth celebrating. And that's when grief sneaks in, not because your life isn't good, but because it's hard to feel proud of it when the measuring stick keeps moving. But honestly, if you're enjoying your life, if you're really in it and you're really living it, why give what anyone else is doing the power to rearrange that piece? And maybe this is my next chapter of growth. Not the version of growth that came from losing sleep or holding back tears, not the kind that made me beg the universe to please just let something shift. Maybe this time it's about finding the spark, not in a fire but in calm. Maybe it's learning to sit with the slow, lingering heaviness of grief In all its not-so-commonly-named forms, and maybe it's about growing with it instead of trying to outrun it or outpace it. And it's just so crazy to me how grief can show up in such complex layers.
Speaker 1:And so, before I log off and go light a candle, I didn't need to buy. Here's this week's journal prompt that you can write to. What parts of me do I miss the most and why? Are they ready to come with me into this next season? Or do they belong to a version of me I've already outgrown.
Speaker 1:And look, I get that journaling is not everyone's thing, so if it is, we're going to keep doing these prompts every episode. It's a thing now, but if it's not your thing, just answer it in your head or don't, but at some point remember what we don't deal with deals with us. And, side note, if you're hungry for more episodes like this, episodes from a slightly different angle or a fresh take that didn't make it into the main episode, donations plus is where I tuck those away. That's exclusively on apple podcast and it's got bonus episodes and journal style rants and pop culture breakdowns, even, and extended conversations. That didn't quite fit the format, but still hit so you can find them there, okay, and my friend here's to grieving softly, to growing quietly and to holding space for every version of you, even the ones you didn't know you'd miss Until the next one. Be careful, thank you.