It takes a fire to start a new beginning
It takes a fire.
Change happens in the least expected moments. Like loss, it has a way of taking over. Sometimes, in small and inconvenient yet still so pervasively present ways. Other times in the most latent and profound ways.
For those of us who’ve had the misfortune of experiencing loss, we know too well the overwhelm of emotions, and the numbness. But there is beauty in the fire, or so they say. Even raging forest fires seed new life to thrive, creating the conditions of becoming more resilient than before. Loss can lead anyone to question who they once were. It can be rattling, shattering … and the beginning of a beautiful journey of transformation.
But there is beauty in the fire.
I was rounding out my mid-thirties when I received the news. My father had passed away. It was unexpected, sudden. I was a new mom and 6-weeks into a new job, a demanding senior leadership role that I’d ironically leap-frogged into when all I’d wanted was a role that came with less responsibility so that I could focus more on being a mom. I was barely surviving already.
And then the person who raised me and shaped me into the person I’d become had suddenly gone. It was a feeling so immense that I still cry with any reminder – a scent, a memory, a taste from childhood.
Before I could process, things with family from afar got ugly. They wanted what they believed was theirs. They wanted money. It was disappointing, angering … but shocking? No. This was my family, after all. I wanted to grieve, but there were matters that needed to get done. My survival instincts – the product of my upbringing, of the calloused household environment that believed that breaking you down was the only way you’d learn – kicked into gear. Despite the chaos, my nervous system went into quiet mode to focus and compartmentalize.
I needed to take care of the matters before me.
It was disappointing, angering - but shocking? No.
There was probate. What was probate? What documents did we need? How was I going to find those documents? What papers need to be filed when a person dies? What needed to be closed immediately? Where do I even start? I literally Googled, “what to do when someone dies.”
None of this was laid out. It rarely is, especially for immigrants.
I literally Googled, "what to do when someone dies."
Extended family continued throwing their rocks. They threatened. They tried to intimidate. The more they puffed their chests, the taller I stood. I met their cries with resolve and logic. I defended my father’s legacy. I fended them off, at least for a while.
At work, I had a young team of 6 and a department of 70 that reminded me of their wrath whenever they didn’t agree with a decision I’d made. There were no systems. That’s why they brought me on. But they also didn’t want systems. They didn’t like change. It was annoying, but it was typical. I’d dealt with this countless times before, and I was good at it, but with all I had to deal with, I struggled to give these matters the same weight. But I needed to make sure my own family was taken care of and to keep our finances afloat, so I mushed on. But then I’d gotten tangled in the throes of internal politics, and by then, I’d run out of steam to fight it.
All the while, things at home became neglected. I made sure to be there for my child, but I was losing presence. The paperwork. What paperwork? Our garden looked abandoned. The only things holding me together were my child and my husband, their hugs and kisses, the most powerful forms of healing.
Eventually, everything started to bleed into each other. How is it possible to experience so many destructive forces at once? My world was on fire. It had been for some time.
So I quit my job, and I cut ties with my extended family. I finally said, “No more.” I saw through to the desperation behind their attempts at tarnishing my dad’s memory. I said, “No more,” to their criticism, to their desperation. “No more,” to having to take care of everyone else’s emotions.
Mentally, I was freed. Culturally, I'd committed the ultimate crime.
It was a wake-up call. The universe – or maybe it was my dad – was telling me to stop, to take a breath. I’d put work before my dad in the last weeks of his life and now I was doing it all over again. How messed up was that? So, I did what I never thought I could. I went against every contouring gyre of my survival instinct. I let go and I listened to my body. I stopped overanalyzing. I stopped scenario-building, anticipating, pre-empting… I stopped. I let go. I accepted the signs before me.
It took my whole world to come crashing down for me to realize that it was time to do something different. All this need to control…it worked well in getting me up to this point. But I’d become a different person. Who yet, I didn’t know. But it was time to find out. It was time to embrace the chaos and take that leap of faith.
It was time to embrace the chaos.
Then I cried. I couldn’t stop crying. I missed my dad. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was scared and rife with guilt for not doing my part to provide for my family. I’d never left a job without the next lined up.
But despite the internal alarms, I knew this was a gift. The gift of time, more valuable than money. I finally chose to let this profound change, change me. I was ready to re-discover who I was and who I truly wanted to be.
I was ready. Ready to let it burn, and for a new beginning.
You May Also Like
3 Steps to Take to Re-Discover Yourself
