A Goodbye Letter

We experience grief in most of life's transitions. Even "good" changes (a better job, our kids moving into a new phase of life, a promotion) mean saying goodbye to something that is now in the past. Those things that we leave behind deserve to be acknowledged - and we deserve to feel their loss. 

There are whole bodies of research into grief, and here's one small exercise that I like to use and recommend when moving into a new chapter. The idea is that you write a letter to the person, organization, or situation you are saying goodbye to. It could even be a goodbye letter to a past version of yourself, another person, or even a person who has passed on from your life. You won't send this letter, so it doesn't have to be realistic; it just needs to make sense to you. 

In your letter, make sure to:

• Say goodbye
• Identify the wrongs done to you - identify what was taken from you and the pain of the loss
• Identify the things you did wrong and acknowledge those wrongs and the pain they caused
• Rant about the people or situations that hurt you
• Apologize to/about people or situations you may have wronged
• Say anything you need to say in order to close this chapter
• Feel free to add as many postscripts (PSs and PPSs) as you need to get your feelings out onto the paper.

In this process, you could identify some people you want to have a closure conversation with, to apologize to, or to share some of the pain you experienced in the chapter you're closing. That's not a requirement at all, but notice if there is someone you want to reach out to. 

The last step is to let a trusted human bear witness to your grief. Ask someone to listen as you read your letter. They don't need to do anything; if they want, they can reflect back to you what they heard. Their job is simply to hold space for your loss. It is a powerful, affirming thing to see yourself and be met by another in your grief.

Pause to enjoy being seen.

You don't have to do anything in particular with your letter. You could tuck it away in your journal, or maybe it's done its job and you can throw it away. If it would feel good to close this chapter in a more ceremonial way, you could do something symbolic with your letter, such as burn it or bury it with a flower bulb. 

Whatever you choose to do with your letter, pause for a moment to feel the freedom of releasing this chapter. Pause to feel a little space in your grief. This freedom is available to you whenever you need it, and you can take this space into your new chapter.

Just Breathe

 I love that the mental health space has really embraced the power of breath in regulating ourselves. There are a million breath exercises on YouTube and in self-help books, and I worry a little that, by studying breathing, we've made it feel a little complicated. 

Let's demystify breathwork. At its core, we are focusing on one of two things:

1. Focusing on the in-breath is energizing
2. Focusing on the out-breath is relaxing

So, if you notice that you're buzzy, anxious, fidgety, etc., then focus on the out-breath to bring it all down a notch. If you're feeling listless, tired, or sad, then focus on the in-breath to bring in new energy.

I'm not dissing your favorite breathing exercise. If you love alternate nostril breathing, box breathing, candle breathing, diaphragmatic breathing, or whatever your favorite app is leading you to do, that's awesome - do it! 

But if you're feeling overwhelmed or turned off by more complex breathing patterns, then take the pressure off, recognize whether you want to increase or discharge energy, and just draw your attention to the in-breath or the out-breath accordingly. 

...

Did you try it? What did you notice? 

7 Days Post-Surgery

 This is my whole world now, just me and my chonky toes and uncomfortable leg: 

I'm currently one week post-surgery. Last Thursday, the surgeons repurposed a particularly choice piece of my hamstring (I'm assuming it was an exemplary sample, which was not confirmed to me in any sort of medical setting) as a new ACL. I'm hoping all of the pieces are getting settled in nice and snug. Tomorrow (Friday) is my post-op, and I have wild fantasies of being able to walk, wear normal human clothes, and stand up in the shower. I think these are all part of the eventual plan, but I admit I probably won't experience them all as soon as I would hope.

Here are some random thoughts and learnings from my week on crutches:

• This is a terrible surgery. How have we not evolved medical practice beyond this? Why can't they just attach a magic rubber band where my poor, sad, missing ACL used to be, and I can be fine the next day? (Note that my husband pointed out that it's a big deal that they can do the operation arthroscopically, and I don't have a giant open incision on my knee. He's right, but I still think we can do better.)
• Although I am in basically constant discomfort, the pain has been blessedly manageable. Lots of ice, lots of Tylenol and ibuprofen (although I did have to cry Uncle on the ibuprofen dose yesterday, it had exceeded my tummy's ability to cope). I credit both my iron will and the nerve block.
• Seated workouts are really cool, really challenging, and feel so good. If a standing workout isn't in your capacity right now (I can only dream of a standing workout), check out https://www.nourishmovelove.com/chair-workouts
• I am shocked by how many pants I have that are wide-legged enough to fit over this giant brace. Feeling vindicated about my penchant for collecting pants, it's really paying off now.
• People who bring over unrequested soup are godsends. Truly, angels.
• 
  My fabulous little cooler that you load up with ice water and then circulates it through a velcro ice pack on your knee is really the hero of this whole operation. Also, Steve, who fills my little buddy up with ice water and cleans it up when I spill the ice water and lugs the ice water from place to place so I can plant in a new chair, is also a hero.
• Biding time is an interesting experience, and not one I am particularly good at.
• My body is working hard at healing, and it's normal to be tired. 
• It feels lovely to be asked if there's anything I need or if someone can get something for me. I can't even carry a cup of tea to a chair - it's a frustrating and vulnerable time. My people are really helpful if I stop and ask them for help. And asking for help is exhausting. It feels so nice to be asked if there's anything they can do for me.
• This would be an impossible experience without great caregivers. Every waking hour, there's something I can't do for myself, and I'm grateful to have folks around me willing to help.
• Being a counselor is a really great job if you have to spend all day sitting down with your feet up.
• A book of "Calming Adult Brain Games" is a fantastic gift. Flowers are wonderful, too.
• I am so grateful for all of the squats and single-leg deadlifts I've been doing over the past months. They are key to my survival right now.
• My friend gave me a "rule of thirds" that she uses for marathons, which has been true for my recovery so far, and a helpful mindset: the first third is really hard because you know you have a long road ahead of you; you find your stride in the middle third; and int the final third you're just counting down and you know you can make it. 

This has been tough. And it's been ok. I'm definitely looking forward to the next phase of healing, and I'm grateful for the inner and external resources that have gotten me through week one. Bring on week two!