Week 2 - 49 years and one week old

This afternoon I’m snuggled up on my couch working on this blog while a loaf of fresh bread baking fills my whole house with the aroma of pure love. It’s a scent that feels like my grandmother’s hug on a day when the world has lost its mind. Both my Nonnie’s hugs and the smell of fresh bread seem to pick up the pieces of a broken world, and put them back together, even if only temporarily. 

There was something about my grandmother and walking into her home that could instantly make the cold, cruel world soft and warm and fluffy, like pancakes smothered in syrup. She was a force of nature. She was the OG Mama Bear and if you were blessed enough to be one of her cubs, her instinct to provide safety and protection at all costs was unmatched. 

It was my grandmother, my mom’s mother, that taught me to cook and make sweet tea. She taught me to value education and travel. She shared with me traditions and family lore, and made sure I knew what kind of women I came from; strong, brave, smart, nurturing. She provided stability and unconditional love. And my grandmother’s house, with its antique furniture, giant SubZero refrigerator overloaded with comfort food, and always smelling like dinner, was the one place that I could still find my mom even after she died. 

My grandmother was my rock after my mom died. She provided a space where I could go for comfort and understanding. Stepping through her front door was a little like stepping into the wardrobe and landing in a giant down comforter, with dozens of fluffy pillows and cozy blankets. I was a scared little girl, unable to make sense of the tragedy that I had lived through. I often felt lost, alone and confused, persecuted by the cruelty of life. And my grandmother provided sanctuary.

She created a space where I could escape and exhale. 

I didn’t have to worry about anything because she would fix it. I didn’t have to do things that felt hard, because she let me rest. I didn’t have to feel afraid of the world because she closed the door on the outside and kept me in the safety of her mama bear den. And the truth is, that’s exactly what I needed… until it wasn’t.

My grandmother succeeded in creating such a safe and comfortable escape zone that I didn’t want to leave it. It was nice there, wrapped up in her snuggly word blankets of “that’s ok” and “don’t worry about it” and “let me take care of you”. Can you blame me for wanting to hide out there forever?

My mom used to say “Hindsight is 20/20”. And she wasn’t wrong. Looking back, I can clearly see how staying in the comfort of my Nonnie’s coddling may have felt really good, and it may have been exactly what I needed at the time to sooth my frayed little nervous system, and I would never look back on that time with regret or condemnation, but… I didn’t grow much during that time either. 

I didn’t venture too far from the nest for very long. I didn’t learn how to deal with normal life bumps and bruises on my own. I didn’t learn the skill of perseverance, nor did I learn that if you look at it from the right perspective, failure is actually just an opportunity to learn.

What I did do was get accepted to college 1,000 miles away from home. Drive all the way to Tampa from Rhode Island with my younger sister. Arrived at my dorm only to find that I couldn't move in that day because I read the move in date wrong. Waited for my dad to arrive in Tampa the next day as planned. Announced that I would not be going to college in Tampa. Got in my car alone, and proceeded to cruise north on I95 up the eastern seaboard until I reached home. My dad and my sister went to Disney World. 

My dad tried to talk sense into me. He really, really tried. But I was stubborn and thick headed and scared. I was outside my comfort zone. Way outside. And my grandmother, the fixer, she was far away from Tampa. I didn’t have the experience of being uncomfortable. I didn’t realize that discomfort is the first sign of growth. It was so foreign to me to be uncomfortable and scared and push through it anyway. I associated uncomfortable with bad, no good, run the other way! 

I spent so much time under the warm, safe wing of my grandmother that I never had the opportunity to experience the growth that comes on the other side of discomfort. I didn’t have the experience of learning to trust myself. I didn’t know that I could fuck up, fall down, get scared, try again, and keep going until I got where I wanted to go. And I certainly didn’t know that I could do all that with no more proof or guarantee of success than my stubborn belief in myself. 

Learning to trust yourself only from trying and not succeeding and trying again, until you do succeed, and refusing to let go of your belief in yourself no matter how much the voice in your head says you can’t do it. 

I think there’s this false narrative that confidence comes from having success at something or knowing how to do something really well. But I disagree. I believe that confidence happens when you allow yourself to believe that you’ll be ok no matter what happens. 

I spent a lot of years, decades really, not pursuing things that I wanted to pursue because I didn’t think I had what it takes. I didn’t know I could trust myself. I didn’t know how to even begin learning to trust myself. I didn’t know it was ok to fall down as long as I got back up. I didn’t know that growth begins as discomfort. I didn’t know that eventually discomfort turns into familiarity, and that’s when real progress begins. 

What’s more, I spent a lot of time trying to keep my kids from experiencing the terror of venturing too far outside the lines. I didn’t know how to teach them to trust themselves by setting an example. I didn’t know how to encourage them to pursue their dreams despite fear and uncertainty by being a person who does just that. I didn’t know.

But now I do. 

And I could spend the rest of my life regretting and looking back, wishing I had done things differently. I could be mad at my grandmother for making it too easy to stay safe. I could decide that now my kids are grown or close to it, and it’s too late to start now. 

But that’s some mid-life bullshit thinking, if I’ve ever heard it. 

It’s never too late. I can still be an example, and not just for my kids, but maybe someday for my grandkids too! I can start now exploring and following my interests and working toward my dreams. I can go forward into the discomfort and not panic. I can trust myself to be ok, no matter what the outcome is. And I can persevere until I get where I want to go, have what I want to have, and do what I want to do. I can fall and get back up a million times, if that's what it takes. I’m not too old. It’s not too late. And it’s the perfect time to pursue my passions.

I’m really glad that I had the time with my grandmother that I did. I’m forever grateful that she showed me what it means to truly be wrapped in love and comfort and protection, because that’s a really great feeling when the world gets ugly. And I’m equally appreciative that I have the rest of my life to push myself into the discomfort, to persevere in the direction of my deepest desires, and to trip and fall, over and over again, and keep getting back up. I get to be uncomfortable and still choose to believe in myself, no matter what the little voice of doubt in my head says. 

There’s so much life left to live when you’re on the edge of 50. So much passion and joy to experience. So much time left to be the example you wish you had. I don’t know about you, but I’m just getting started and I couldn’t be happier about it!

Blessings & beach days forever,

Katie