Just a phase.
I can still hear her, my mother, always ready with this pearl as I was growing up, in the thick of one of life’s thornbushes, trying to find my way out without too many scratches. “It’s just a phase” was her way of sharing the perspective one doesn’t always have in that tricky tangle-of-branches moment. Her way of reassuring me that I was not stuck there. Those thorns are part of the journey, but they are not the destination. She reiterated those four words again when I was dealing with my own ornery and recalcitrant teenagers.*
*Kids, if you’re reading this, just know I adore you all as your adventuresome, adorable, self-sufficient young-adult selves. But there were a few years there where “phase” seemed very, vvvvvery long. Middle Ages long. (That’s about 1,000 years for any non-history buffs.)
My mother-in-law lived by a similar canon: “This too shall pass.” Manifesters would agree, and on a rational level, I would join them in their move-past-it-ness. It’s good to project forward and focus on better times ahead. Buuut easier said than done in the all-consuming muck and mire of the trials you’re chin-deep in today. It can feel like the Shawshank tunnel with no light at the end.
So where to from there? As for me, I’m a grinder – head down, shoulder to the wheel, pushing through until I’m through. I’ve never been terribly adept at introspection and deep breathing. Just gun it ‘til you’ve done it. And it works – I do get to the other side of things. But there are after-effects, and they take their toll in some not-so-pretty ways – like weight gain and hair loss and a few more uninvited and unwelcome frown lines.
For me, 2022 rolling into 2023 was the Phase of All Phases. One existential gut punch after the other:
My mother passed.
My brother died 6 months later, making me the last survivor of my family of origin.
I sold the business I’d been running for more than 20 years, the last seven as sole owner.
My youngest went off to college.
Life collision events tend to cluster for me – either by my hand or that of the Cosmos. It’s never just one thing. It’s a pile-on, weighing on me, leaving me feeling smooshed flat, struggling for breath. Even if I were an excellent self-reflector-”introspector,” that requires time. Some level of sanity. The ability to focus. And quiet. None of which I had. The “noise” was loud. The demands of the day were consuming, from caretaking, estate dealings, financial closings and handholding, to stacks of paperwork slaying.
The have-to’s grew like unencumbered kudzu. So I did what I do, hacking away at them, line by line, until they diminished to the usual unruly roster of things I’d rather save for later. You know, the list that gets re-written as Today’s To-do’s, day after day, one crossed off, three more added until it eventually gets done. The last two years were such a mental jumble, I don’t have much memory of them. But I do have the expanded waistline and receding hairline as enduring souvenirs. (Hello, Cosmos? I’d like to return those “gifts.” Send a return-ship label stat.)
Why does this period stand out more than the others? Partly because the stings still sting a little sometimes (holidays, empty kids’ rooms, a different set of company milestones). But mostly because everything was different. There was no historical data to draw from. Nothing familiar to tether to. It was psychological/mental/emotional ground zero.
I had to chart entirely new cultural conduits. As the last standing family member, I became the default matriarch. Holidays became mine alone to reinvent, with the expectation of creating lasting memories for my children (no pressure). At the newly merged company, I had to define a new role for myself. Migrate my team into new spaces and office mores. Mitigate collective anxiety. Circumnavigate crossed wires. Regulate ego. And decipher the difference between Teams and Outlook. (Seems negligible, but any Google person can relate.)
So now, almost halfway through 2024, that phase is (mostly, thankfully) in the rearview mirror, getting smaller and more off-in-the-distance by the day.
Some takeaways:
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is real. Do more than tend to it. Prioritize it.
Breathing, food, water, shelter, clothing, sleep. Those aren’t nice-to-haves. They are essentials. I learned the hard way that ignoring the physiological side can do some physical damage (refer above to weight and hair). My brain tends to go into overdrive during a phase like this – a few well-placed guided meditations and lots of water went a long way to quell the panic. But still, sleep eluded me for months. No amount of reading or sleep aids could quiet the cacophony of things undone racing through my head. I did find one thing that worked. Queue up really, really boring podcasts on topics you don’t give a flying fig about. You’ll drift off in no time, and maybe pick up something new via your subconscious. And although exercise is not outlined in Maslow’s pyramid, I walked, walked, walked, walked. Cliché as it sounds, sometimes one step in front of the other was the day’s crowning achievement (progress!) – both physically and figuratively.
Find your people. Trust your people. Let your people help.
During times of personal loss or career transition, DIY’ing it is ill-advised. You need people. These waters are swimming with things unseen ready to sting or take a sizable chomp out of you. So gather your team. (Think legal counsel, tax advisors, and someone you can say really vile things to in a fit of frustration, without judgment. You’ll feel better when it’s out of your system. And no one but that trusted person evvvver has to know you said it.
Bird by bird.
This last one is from one of my favorite authors, Anne LaMotte, from the book by the same name. Her father’s simple, yet profound advice was to take life “bird by bird.” It’s essentially step-by-step progress, but tinier, lighter, quieter.
Seemingly less significant, but not. It sounds simple, but it’s really almost impossible for me. I tend to jump ahead, trying to figure out all the potential outcomes in advance, and strategizing on how I would deal with those. But sometimes, that’s too much. Detrimental even. If I learned anything during my annus horribilus, it’s to keep your head down and focus on what’s right in front of you. No long view. Finding your way out of that thorn bush, branch by branch. That’s the best way through. Because it is just a phase, and this too shall pass. The trick is to minimize the scarring.
Oh, and in hindsight, that annus horriblus did have one big highlightus. I became a grandmother.