How to Save a Life

Maybe you already know that after a hard-fought battle with cancer, my friend Jennifer, an absolute ray of sunshine who belongs among the wildflowers, left her worldly adventure earlier this week. She died on her only child's 22nd birthday. How did she do that?

I knew it was coming... and still... hearing the news knocked the wind out of both me and my sails immediately. I scream-cried to my husband. He held me steady like the anchor he is. 

He loved Jennifer too. He would have quite possibly married her just for her homemade salsa alone if he had the chance to taste it before we met. It was that good. She was that good.

We met her after we were engaged. She was the only friend who wasn't family or from high school or college to have a staring roll at our wedding. She reminded me of Stevie Nicks, and I knew we'd be friends to the end. I was so lucky to be right about that. 

When I got the news of her passing, my heavy heart throbbed, beating me up from the inside. I felt lightheaded, dizzy, and faint. My whole body started to shake. I called for my husband and then ran downstairs, knees buckling underneath me as I fell to the safe harbor of our couch. I began to release the intense and overflowing cyclone building inside of me. 

Honestly, it was a bit much. I was a bit much. I mean a lot (in that tone, you know?), as some people say. "She's a lot." I agree, yes. Even for a drama queen like me, the sobbing was too loud. Dramatic. Theatrical, almost actually, if I do say so myself. 

It's not my first grief rodeo. Anyone who's been here a minute knows this. I mean honestly. It's a bit much. This story of love and loss over and over again. Are we done yet?

I've felt the desire to scream-cry like this before, and I've always stopped myself to get the spotlight off of me. It's so uncomfortable to have people sit there and watch you cry. What are they supposed to do though when you are there blubbering in front of them? The whole thing is uncomfortable for everyone. This time, I just went for it anyway; it felt unstoppable.

I heard my own primal pain emerging up from the deep-seated root of my underbelly, and for the first time, I allowed my polite and proper outsides to match my raging insides, and I let that carnal agony out. I let that beast roar.

I unleashed the sharp, painful ache that is the no-fair-unjust-nonsensical-uncontrollable loss emancipate out of me. The weight of holding the torment of her suffering spilled out from my innermost cavaties. The force generated from my solar plexus then rose to the back of my throat. I howled out into the air in front of me. The pure shock of her finality wailed up and out of me like an animal. I did not apologize for this. I gave myself permission for all the time I needed to wail, scream, swear, and bawl my eyes out. 

Damn, that felt good. That felt right. That felt much better than being quiet and tidy about it. Much better than telling myself to get over it and stuff it down on repeat for 5 years every time it bubbled up. The whole episode took about 15 minutes.

Then, like a toddler with a temper tantrum before a nap, I grew tired of it. I whipped my tears and went upstairs to be quiet and alone again. I almost smiled to myself at my performance; it was that noteworthy, but I still needed something. I remembered from losing Tracy that it was connection that I needed so desperately and had trouble articulating and finding until a friend so clearly saw what I was seeking and defined it for me (Kate, that was you). I learned from that, so I started reaching out and telling people as soon as I recognized it. 

Among the first people I shared with were my daughters. The most beautiful thing happened when I told them. 

They each individually said, "I'm sorry. That's so sad, Mama."

And when I tried to fight back tears, they said,

"You can let yourself cry. Mom. It's ok to cry."

"It's ok to be sad, Mom. You loved her, and I love you." 

"She was a good friend; you get to feel sad. I'm sad too."

I recognized that they were encouraging me to feel all the feels. They get it because I taught them. They've seen me practice this in my near 7 years of sobriety. They've heard the words I've said to them when they've come home feeling disappointed, sad, misunderstood, grieving, and alone. They were repeating to me all the things. These angel babies are little parrots, aren't they? 

I noticed how comfortable they were seeing me feel things. All things. Much more comfortable than they were watching me get a little boozy. They are ok to watch me navigate difficult times. They trust I know how to take care of myself.

Nobody, I mean nobody, is scared I am going over the edge. I think everyone was when I was drinking. In a way, it surprises me to be this secure because I spent my whole life terrified and shaking in my boots. But I am not scared of going over the edge either. I can feel and not fall. I can fall, and I won't stay down. I can give myself a soft landing place either way.

I have allowed my children to feel, and now they are here alongside me to celebrate my full human experience too. Not just the ups but also the downs. The downs were everything I was trying to shelter them from in years past by hiding my pain. What a disservice that was! I wasn't protecting them from death; I was guarding them from being fully alive.

And now, to think that my drinking picked up speed for those 5 years after my dad and friends died because I didn't allow myself a simple 15-minute intermission for a full-on gut wrenching, heartbreaking, tear-gushing, wailing performance with or without an audience.

Learn from this. I beg you. Do not be afraid to feel, my love. Be afraid not to feel. Do not be afraid to be alive. Be afraid of being numb. Be afraid of diluting yourself. Drinking alcohol is not living life to it's fullest. The world needs you fully awake and alive. You need you to be fully awake and alive. Do not be afraid of that. That is what we are here for. 

After that grief-filled episode, I am left with only love and gratitude for having the kind of take-your-secrets-to-the-grave-friend that I had in Jennifer. Our friend-ship sinks to the bottom with her passing, but man, I give a mighty salute as it descends. Our friend-ship was a united and fierce force, a solid and steady vessel, and a free-sailing all entertainment cruise depending on the season. There was no stopping the inevitable end because, duh, we all die eventually, but first we lived. 

We LIVED. We lived it all together, and I can't tell you how many times we saved each other's lives'. Someday I might share some of our stories, but mostly I won't.

You see, I'm a take-your-secrets-to-the-grave kind of friend too. These are the best kind, and if you have one, lucky you. If you have two hot damn lucky you. Take your friend-ship for a spin at sea as soon as you can on Jennifer and me.

Holiday Offerings + Discounts

The best news is women like you aren't waiting for Dry January. They have decided to not waste another holiday being wasted and getting in front of it now.

I take a very limited number of 1x1 clients because I offer a very premium service (unlimited text and email, personalized, custom-curated support). I rarely have openings because clients tend to stay with me long after they ditch the drink for general life coaching support. I am busier now than in December's past (a great surprise!) A waitlist is starting for 1x1 Dry January Coaching Support. Schedule your complimentary call now to secure individualized support in the new year. If I don't have openings, I have the best referrals. Either way, let's connect.

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INSIDER membership and community is a kind of life raft for stormy seas, early sobriety, and just plain life being lifey. Join us for FREE here. In the upcoming weeks, we've got members sharing their stories for the first time. I can't think of a better time to join than now.

December's Masterclasses available now are  Making Holiday Mocktails with Mo and Intuition with Tina Conroy - The Intuitive Woman

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