The Luminist

Wonderland, a relatively new indie bookstore in Bethesda, does not carry my book. And that’s okay by me.

In all my guises — capitalist, reader, author — I want independent bookstores to not just survive, but thrive. Not because I’m Mother Teresa. Because I’m exactly the opposite.

Like a casual fisherman out for a day on a sparkling lake, the bookstore experience is one of my favorite escapes. It’s where I peruse at my leisure for the next volume for my teetering TBR pile (Baldwin: A Love Story), find a never-heard-of book that changes my perspective on life (Get Me Through the Next Five Minutes: Odes to Being Alive), or add a tome to the Loss Canon I never would have found otherwise (Happy Death Club: Essays on Death, Grief & Bereavement Across Cultures). Even when I come home empty-handed, I’m still lit up by the experience: the catch is nice, but the casting is the point.

Like any other business, indie bookstores have to make money to survive. Taking up their limited shelf space with, let’s just say, a book on loss that resonates for some, but may cause others to break out in hives and flee, is not the best for the bottom line. On the other hand, they could use their shelf space for the current best sellers, word of mouth hits, crowd pleasers, book-related gifts. While no book is a sure thing, some are surer than others. Understandably, Wonderland’s shelf space is allocated there. Not to Do Loss.

Rather than copping a ‘take-my-ball-and-go-home’ attitude because my book has never enjoyed the limelight of their window display or entrance table, I remain devoted to Wonderland. To all my indies. I support them in every way I can, attending their book events, eyeing their in-store stock, or coming away with a tote full of fun.

There is a geeky term for this in the book world: literary citizenship.

It means showing up for the ecosystem that makes books possible, while putting your personal interests on the back burner.

You likely recognize this in the ecosystems you are devoted to: your church choir, your ultimate frisbee team, your bridge club. Any place you, with time or sweat or devotion, tend to something that isn’t solely yours. Without counting chits.

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This August, an email from a Wonderland co-owner popped up in my inbox:

Wonderland is excited to announce that we will be holding a Local Author Showcase on October 8th! We are so grateful for the support we’ve gotten from the local author community, and we want to provide an opportunity for you to reach a broad audience to talk about your recent books and make them available for sale…

The capitalist in me scratched her head. Then checked her mental spreadsheets. The math was not mathing: Wonderland was renting a venue, organizing the authors, providing staff, bringing their hard-built community to the table…without making a dime? Sure, we authors were paying a nominal fee, but it barely covered the event space. Then my mental fog cleared, and the literary citizen in me nodded in recognition to the literary citizen in them.

So on an Indian summer evening six weeks later, there I was, perched on a folding chair behind a flimsy card table, plying my wares with 25 other local authors.

Across from me was Bob, with his book Bridges of Washington, D.C., A History & Guide, catching the attention of passers-by with a giant posterboard depicting both the area’s well-known spans (Key Bridge, of course!) and its hidden gems (the Arizona Avenue trestle). Catty-corner was another Bob, a non-fiction political author with his volume Unforced Errors: 15 Bad Decisions That Changed American History. Behind me, a fiction writer with her four-book series. And beside me, B-I-L Richie, emitting good vibes to all passersby.

There were far more attendees than I anticipated. The erudite and educated and just plain supportive citizens of this DC-suburb enacting their own version of literary citizenship: milling about, talking to us authors, buying a book or two. An Australian woman noticed the gritty rainbow on the Do Loss cover, and leaned in, “I could really use a book about loss”. A fellow author a few tables down saw the Loss Canon as ‘source material’ and wanted to see its output in the pages of Do Loss itself. An elfin senior citizen shared a story about a new acquaintance whose girlfriend had just broken up with him, “Do you think your book could help?” Richie brought his own pitch to a specific demographic of potential buyers, we’ll call them ‘dudes of a certain age’. He doubled down on the playbook aspect of Do Loss, hooking these guys with the intro line, “Do you like sports?” He and I exchanged many a goofy fist-bump as we critiqued each other’s pitches, deciding which parts to steal for our own shtick.

I was sitting there in the happy buzz when a woman about my age slowly approached, reaching out to touch my book’s cover.

“Are you Mike Deagle’s wife?” she asked.

Eyebrows lifted, I responded, “Yes! I am! Did you know Mike?”

“We both worked at PwC. I attended an executive retreat with him in Arizona a few months before he died and we talked a lot. He was the most thoughtful guy. He sent me a note after the retreat that was so kind and supportive. I’ll never forget it.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all,” I said proudly. “That’s totally him. Here, take a look at this.”

Then I flipped to the back of Do Loss, showing her the picture of Mike with the kids.

We chatted for a bit about her work, my work, and what she was doing now. Then she got out her phone to Venmo me for a copy.

“Thank you SO much for sharing this little glimpse of Mike with me,” I said. ”I know sometimes people are afraid to do this, to remind a person of their dead loved one, but I collect these stories like coins in a piggy bank. Can I give you a hug?”

She nodded and I pulled her in for an embrace. I signed her book, scrawled the name of a few other Loss Canon books on the back of her flyer, and off she went.

With the showcase winding down, Richie snapped the legs of my card table shut, then strode over and bought himself a copy of Bob #2’s Unforced Errors. Bob #1 and I exchanged cards and wished each other well. I gave one of my display racks to the fiction author behind me, who had been asking where I’d gotten it. “I’ve got two more of these at home!” I assured her.

The math didn’t math, and none of us could care less.

To community,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

Order Sue's Book - Do Loss: A New Way to Move Through Change here: https://suedeagle.com/book 

Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

Last week, I wrote about not letting a number tell you how to feel.

This week, I’d like to take that all back.

I’m sitting here staring at the top left corner of my google doc, the cobalt blue icon’s jaunty top right corner folded over. Flanking it is a number. Not just any number, a BIG FAT MILESTONE NUMBER.

200, baby.

Here’s where I’d like to be a hypocrite: I’d like to ditch last week’s wisdom and instead, take a victory lap, 200 pinned to my chest like a runner’s bib flapping in the wind. I’d like to stand on the podium triumphant, fists clasped overhead, celebrating my baddass-ery, my sheer, stubborn stick-to-it-iveness.

The only problem is, that is NOT how I feel.

(Which means last week’s wisdom was right, damnit: numbers shouldn’t be the mechanism goosing our emotions… whether those numbers are ‘bad’ or ‘good’.)

This is a bummer. I sure could use the mood boost a moment on the podium brings. The triumph that 200 weeks of creating implies. Because lately, writing The Luminist has been the why-the-heck-am-I-doing-this kind of hard.

I’ve been at this for almost four years, every freaking week, then BLAM!, I’m like a potty trained toddler who’s suddenly regressed, producing a bunch of crap.

Lucky for all of us, post quality has remained great because I have the most encouraging (and talented!) editor in the world: Leona. Lately, when I email her a draft post on a Monday (after a weekend spent clicky-clacking away, taking periodic breaks to blow a gasket at the dreck on the page, loathing the sight of my white iPad charging on the kitchen counter, taking a walk/ leaf-blowing the driveway/ rearranging my bookshelves in an attempt to do anything but write), what I’m really sending her is a random assortment of puzzle pieces, no corners completed, no picture for context. Here, Leona. Good luck with that.

But she’s not just my editor, she’s one of my BFFs. She knows me. She cares. For four years she’s been reading my drafts — which is like having a front row seat to my deranged psyche, a brain surgeon’s-eye view of my gears crunching and clogging. She then deciphers what the hell I mean. She comes back to me throughout the week with a ‘there, there, it’s ok’, and then: prompts, questions, a directive to provide a voice note breaking down a concept, or a request to pick one theme out of the ten I’m trying to hand jam into the post. Sheesh.

So that’s where I find myself on this milestone day. Losing my religion. But loving the person who helps me through.

(Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at https://theluminist.substack.com/.)

Given these conditions, we’re absolutely not doing the tropes of a traditional milestone post. No pulling my shirt up so we can all gaze at my navel and marvel at all I’ve learned in 200 posts (gag). Let’s instead talk about the people that make these posts even remotely possible. Friends, creative partners, strangers… and, I’m not embarrassed to cheese out and say, dear reader, you.

Leona: Collaborator, friend, and the person who has taught me the most about how to write over these 200 weeks… while also helping me to find my own voice. Here’s the truth: No Leona, no TL. And no TL, no Do Loss, or Loss Canon, or Midlife Pilgrim (my next book, which is starting to take shape!), or all the other things I’ve done and want to do as a writer and idea-sharer in the world. How lucky am I to have stumbled up another golden-aspen’d hiking trail four Septembers ago and met this gorgeous girl. Serendipity is real, folks. It’s all around. Pay attention.

My Friends: My friends have the patience of Job. They gently spar with me as we discuss some nonsensical idea that I’m convinced makes sense. They give me their thoughts when I beg for help with my now infamous ‘I’m trying to write a post about this’ opening. I write by association — whether it’s a scene from a TV show, something a teenager said, or a realization about my obsession with post-apocalyptic novels, the initial inspiration draws other ideas to it like a magnet, creating a pile of connections. But I have to have a conversation to bring these inputs together. To make them cohere. I needed to talk to my pal Mike about Zeke’s hamburger costume over dinner. To Kavon about Costco at the gym. A post doesn’t exist without a back and forth. My friends are tugging, gently, on the other side of my rope.

My Family: I think one of the biggest surprises of writing TL is that it’s got me reaching out to my Mom and Dad with esoteric questions: what year did Pap serve in WWII, how old was I when we moved to Gibsonia, what year did you get your PhD, how many years did we tent camp in the Kinzu? Without searching for these answers as input to a TL post, I might never have these bits and bobs of information. Information that will be gone when they go. My past is fleshed out because of these exchanges.

Then, there’s also my BFF B-I-L Richie, who is a full-fledged TL character in his own right. And, of course, the kids. Kendall, for her splash-of-cold-water-in-the-face wisdom, Connor for his sensitive takes. My family is the most consistent source for the bell-ringing thought ‘that would make a great post!’

Strangers: People I don’t know are a major source of post inspiration. Just this morning I was stooped down at the newspaper rack at my Safeway, gaping at Erling Haaland’s picture on the weekend WSJ when a mom with her waddling toddler wooshed through the automatic door behind me. “Do you want a basket to shop with?” Mom said to the tow-head. But instead of that, I heard “Do you want a basket to shoplift?” My first thought before I realized my error was,“Wow, starting them young!” I burst out laughing when I realized my mistake, then immediately thought ‘how do I turn this into a post?’

Guys, that is my creative process! No content calendars or hot takes. Nine times out of ten, it’s a phrase flying through the air that sticks to the fly paper of my brain. The guy working the cafe on the Eurostar mistaking my identity — “I know you British like your tea hot”. Watching a grown man cry on ESPN’s College GameDay when his dog died, and how his fellow commentators leaned in to support him. Strangers plant the seeds that grow into a post I can’t foresee.

Readers: And now, to you, dear reader. I’ve always had a thing for accountability. Maybe it’s the western PA Gen-Xer in me, or perhaps all my years spent working alongside military veterans. Dunno. It’s not like your Saturday morning is incomplete without my thousand words popping up in your inbox, but I still feel beholden to show up — in the best way.

Frankly, this symbiotic connection is probably the thing that has kept me writing for 200 weeks. Or let me put it more bluntly: YOU are the thing that has kept me writing for more than 200 weeks. Sticking it out through the good times, the grieving times, the insightful times, the WTF times (that’s now). Your invisible presence has magic. I don’t even know many of you. And still you read my work? That’s a privilege. So if even only one of you was counting on me to deliver something to peruse while you drink your Saturday morning coffee, or watch your kid from the bleachers, or take your car to the shop, I’d feel like I was letting you down if your inbox had only ads or bills to offer. And that I’m just not going to do. Yep, it’s a little intense and for sure irrational — just like me.

And one last joy that crosses over these categories: far flung friends who read TL. I rely on my face-to-facers for ideating and iterating on posts, but my far away friends text me thoughtful notes on what resonated for them. Ken shares how his own departure from corporate felt, Jon about how his last visit to Colorado Springs went, Danny on the resonance of not living a safe deposit box life. Precious.

And just like that, I have my mojo back. After the last six weeks of slogging, writing this post this weekend has been fun. Wow! I missed that. And the cherry on top? I welled up while finishing it, which is always, always, always the surest sign I’m on the right track. Just writing about my TL ecosystem, our interconnectedness, generates a gratefulness so profound that all the feels come along for the ride.

Thank you all, so, so much,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

Order Sue's Book - Do Loss: A New Way to Move Through Change here: https://suedeagle.com/book 

Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

I spent my 58th birthday alone, just like I’d planned.

Since I was a kid, my birthday always felt like an inside job. My mom would wake me up with a tray loaded with pancakes, orange juice, and a dainty vase and flower. And then she’d leave me the heck alone, to go do all the things a mom of three has on her plate. It was a special day that my loved ones acknowledged, but really it was a day for me to take care of me.

So after I left home, I DIY’d my birthday — I’d take the day off from work and see a movie. I’d treat myself to a play. (Last year was an anomaly, which had me on a whole tear about interdependence. So don’t get me wrong, independent birthdays aren’t THE way, they’ve just been MY way for most of my life.)

This year I was back to solo-celebrating. I booked myself a trip to Beaver Creek, Colorado, right as the aspens were showing off their autumn flare. I hiked six miles up Stag Gulch Trail (emphasis on UP), plopped myself in the jacuzzi, and then took myself out for a daytime espresso martini. Throughout, my phone was buzzing with texts from loved ones, and in response to their birthday wishes, I sent them selfies of me on the hike, at the bar, and in the hot tub.

The response I got: “You’re an inspiration!!”

I’m always a little surprised — sheepish even — about being an “inspiration”. Yes, I have purposefully worked to wipe away the expectation that life automatically becomes “less than” after a catastrophic loss like mine. But I’m sensitive to being labelled as “different” in a way that is inaccessible to others… Even though, in some ways, I just might be?

Part superpower, part blindspot, I don’t feel societal expectations the way other people do. (For the most part, that is. I’m still human.) It’s as if the gravitational pull to conform can’t get a foothold in my brain.

I think I developed ‘conformity immunity’ thanks to the fragmentation of moving at eight, ten, and twelve. After moving at eight and ten, I did the try-to-fit-in thing… and it didn’t really work for me. So by twelve I was like, to hell with it. I’d be myself in my blue corduroy overalls with my bass clarinet, people would go “whoa,” and I’d avert my eyes, retreat to a book, swim some laps. I learned to be happy being myself, by myself, no matter what anyone around me thought.

To be clear, I still make decisions from fear — like becoming a capitalist rather than an anthropologist so I could tamp down ever-present worries about money. And, I still believe in being a decent human being, making responsible decisions, considering how a choice could impact others, trying not to offend anyone with a Substack post. But those decisions are mine. If other people, even MOST people, would make different decisions than me, good for them. They can live their life, while I live mine. Mike’s death amplified this bent by a thousand percent; life’s too short to live it anyone’s way but my own.

So when I hear “you’re an inspiration!” I can’t help but wonder what about the way I live my life stands out? Is it because I’m 58 and hiking and day drinking? Is it because I’m actively choosing to do exactly what I want to do? Is it because I’m out on my own, while some wait for others to make them feel good? Or because of a combo platter of all of it: how I live my life at my age.

(Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at https://theluminist.substack.com/.) 

Aging very much interests me. It interests me the same way loss interests me, because we think aging makes you “less than”.

People’s lives get smaller as they age. They travel less, go to less events, try fewer new things. Maybe some folks truly want a cozier life, but for most people I believe it’s because they have an idea of what 65, 70, 75 looks like. They think it looks like staying around home, being less active and less adventurous, asking for less novelty and excitement out of life. It’s as if being marginally closer to death’s door means you’re not as alive… But death and aging can actually be wildly disconnected — just ask Mike Deagle.

From my perspective of conformity blindness, it looks like people are sometimes copying and pasting someone else’s experience onto theirs. In an endless quest for the safety of fitting in, they end up turning cultural cliches into their reality. I also believe that for some people not knowing what to expect is the Big Bad Thing they’ll avoid at all costs. You’ll take someone else’s idea of aging, even if it doesn’t belong to you and doesn’t resonate with you at all, because at least there’s some surety there. “Oh yeah, 58. That’s definitely on the downhill curve. Period. End of story.”

But what if we took all that external seeking of what to expect, how to prepare, how to fit in and turned it back on ourselves? On our own bodies and minds, our own joys and desires, as quirky as they may be?

We’re all individuals. But that seems so scary to people. Why is it so scary just to be us? Maybe because we don’t know where to look to find what works for us. Turning our attention inward, to what we feel and want and would enjoy, is such an underdeveloped muscle that many of us need psychological physical therapy to reactivate it. So of course we default to models of what we’ve been taught or what we’ve seen around us. Even “putting ourselves first” feels like a leap into the unknown. We think that’s a Thelma and Louise-style mustang off the cliff, but the drop does not spell doom. It’s scary, not deadly.

In the end, this tangled mess of expectations and fear of the unknown and inability to prioritize our own joy causes us to associate aging with feeling less than, being less than, acting less than. So the “golden” years — rather than being spent how we want, the hard won result after years of work, planning, and saving — end up being… meh.

This isn’t thriving. It’s following invisible, made-up, un-regulated rules.

One of the great things about 58 is that it’s a relatively blank slate. The number doesn’t come pre-wrapped in as many expectations as 60 or 65. It could be a symbol, like Prince. It could be cuneiform from ancient Sumeria. It could be a Greek letter à la the real Rosetta Stone. Whatever.

58’s lack of a preconceived identity frees me to go down its rabbit hole, curious and open-minded, to simply see what I find.

Don’t get me wrong, aging is real. The evidence stares me in the face every day. I’m just not going to let it define what I think I’m capable of. My life is great. A different kind of great than it was when I was training for an Ironman in my late 20s, having babies in my mid-30’s, mom-ing tweens in my early 40’s, jetting around the globe in my early 50’s. But great nonetheless, as I ponder the writer and noticer and pilgrim I am today.

My age doesn’t inherently make my life “less than”… so I’m not going to let it make my life “less than”, starting with how I think about it.

To aging inspirationally,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

Order Sue's Book - Do Loss: A New Way to Move Through Change here: https://suedeagle.com/book 

Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

My job as a volunteer counselor wasn’t complicated, because grief camp isn’t complicated. What we mostly do is play. Gaga ball, basketball, soccer. We zip line. We kayak. We tie dye. We compete in relay races and lip sync battles and scavenger hunts. We chant. And in between arts & crafts and pool time, we have a sharing circle where we talk about our person. The person we lost.

As we sat facing each other, our plastic chairs squeaking, the cohort of kiddos passed around pictures of themselves, their families, and their person. Each child had time to share their stories, feelings, and frustrations about their experience of losing a parent, a caregiver, or a sibling. No one tried to fix each other, nor rush past hard feelings. We just listened.

On my left sat a 9-year-old we’ll call Zeke, paging through his photo stack. Topping his pile was a solo picture of him wearing an outfit my side eye could not identify.

There was a lull in the conversation as we passed the tissue box around, so I leaned in, “Hey Zeke, what’s that a picture of?”

He flipped it so the whole circle could see, “Oh, it’s me! When I feel sad, I put my hamburger costume on and it makes me feel happy.”

While the other kids laughed with delight, my jaw dropped. As did every other grown-up jaw in the room.

(Sidebar, reader: what happens at grief camp stays at grief camp so I’ve changed personal details to protect the privacy of all pint-sized philosophers involved.)

> Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at https://theluminist.substack.com/.

Here are the adult actions that are allowed, acceptable, rubber-stamped with a ‘that’s what loss looks like’ seal of approval: crying on the bathroom floor; looking haggard and disheveled in a dirty t-shirt and sweatpants at the grocery store; breaking out in tears in a meeting, at back-to-school night, or while playing catch in the backyard.

Smiling, laughing, having the tiniest moment of joy? Unacceptable.

Of course intellectually, we want grieving people to feel joy. But in practice, we are very uncomfortable when we see people who are still in their grief also experiencing said joy. No no no no — they are supposed to grieve for a while, and then after an “appropriate” amount of time (which everyone judges differently), be over it, and act as if nothing ever happened. As if the human experience is ever that black and white.

So when people have a BIG loss — like a husband, parent, child, or sibling — many people subconsciously think you could never, would never, should never get over it. And therefore never exult in joy again. Putting our hamburger costume on is not only frowned upon, it’s forbidden, as if joy after loss is bad form, a betrayal or dishonoring of our disappeared person. Kids don’t buy this BS, but I know I did. For a long time, I didn’t reach for my hamburger costume — hell, I didn’t even know what my hamburger costume was. Instead, I settled for numbing out, which our society quietly head-nods its approval of: oscillating between being stoic in the face of our enduring pain, and withdrawing from the world to lick our everlasting wounds.

Don’t get me wrong, numb has its place: my go-to distraction faves will always be Star Wars marathons, gin & tonics, and scrolling. These things still bring me desperately needed relief at times; they’re often how I squirrel away the energy I need to go searching for joy. But if I stayed numb, I would never find joy. And joy shouldn’t be optional for life, especially after a period saturated with despair and heartbreak. At some point, we simply have to go looking for our hamburger costume.

I remember the first fleeting feeling of joy I had after Mike died. It was a few months in, and CeCe and I were sitting across from each other in a sticky booth at Panera, letting our warm coffee cups chase away the February chill. I have no clue what we were talking about, but I clearly remember the feeling: laughter bubbling up from my sternum into my throat, then bursting forth as I threw my head back and let out a full belly guffaw. I also remember the look on CeCe’s face: pure relief.

Reaching for hamburger-costume joy in our worst moments does not chase the sadness away. But it does add a powerful emotion alongside it. An emotion with enough weight that, for a moment, it can even the scales during loss. It allows us to catch our breath. To stash away real strength we’ll need for the journey. To look ahead, and dare to imagine we’ll find a life worth living on the other side.

None of this is on Zeke’s mind. He’s doing what comes naturally to him: not sitting around waiting for the sadness to pass. He’s doing something about it. Whipping out his XS polyester printed pullover, with its lettuce, tomato and pickle on a sesame seed bun emblazoned on both sides, a little tail of cheddar squeezing out the side. He’s not afraid to don it in an effort to feel happy. He’s not pretending his person didn’t die or that it doesn’t suck sometimes. He’s simply refusing to let joy be squeezed out of the picture.

As we closed out our circle of sharing, I helped Zeke tuck his photos back into the tiny photo album he’d brought along. I slid it into the top of his backpack and gave the zipper a tug.

“You know Zeke, that really helped me, thinking about how your hamburger costume makes you happy when you feel sad. Thanks for sharing that.”

Zeke gave me that universal ‘you are a crazy grown-up’ look, and shrugged. Then he broke into a smile, and replied: “I have a pizza costume, too.”

To reaching for our hamburger costumes,

Sue

P.S. If you or someone you know could benefit from grief camp, check out all Experience Camps has to offer here.

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

Order Sue's Book - Do Loss: A New Way to Move Through Change here: https://suedeagle.com/book 

Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

How do you know when to let something go?

Letting things go without having a say — more highway robbery than baton-passing — takes up chapter after chapter of my story. This includes my moves as a kid all the way up to the empty nest, with Mike’s death the textbook exemplar.

But what about the times when the choice is ours?

Sometimes we wait for an undeniable knowing, for a YES!, for a bi-plane dragging a banner NOW’S THE TIME. Sometimes we get so burnt out or turned off or fed up we can’t take it anymore, then we flail our way out. Sometimes what we are holding onto feels so precious that we don’t realize we’re whiteknuckling it, preserving some old upsides but dragging along a whole raft of downsides too.

(Subscribe to have the Luminist delivered to your inbox every Saturday, in both written and audio format, at https://theluminist.substack.com/.) 

My most recent experience choosing an ending (by the flail method by the way) was when I left the corporate world. It started with the burnout, which had been accumulating for years, but after a particularly hairy season at work could no longer be ignored. Well, that’s not totally right — I absolutely would have ignored it, but it started leaking out as unhinged responses to minor issues, a deep sense of constriction I couldn’t shake, and occasionally an overwhelming desire to simply lie down on the floor… Eventually I realized I didn’t want to be this version of myself. Which was terrifying because I didn’t know how to be anything else — anything other than Work Sue. So during a moment of acute exhaustion and desperation, I asked the universe for signs… and got them.

“There is a time for departure even when there’s no certain place to go.” – A quote from the playwright Tennessee Williams that caught my eye in the Financial Times.

“I am leaving so I can enjoy my family and life in a fuller and more present way.” – retiring congressman Katko told the Wall Street Journal.

And Ash Barty had just won the Australian Open and decided to retire at age 25 – “I don’t have the physical drive, the emotional want, and everything it takes to challenge yourself at the very top level anymore. I am spent… I’ve given absolutely everything I have to this beautiful sport of tennis, and I’m really happy with that. For me, that is my success.”

I started questioning why I was staying, rather than when was the right time to go… and realized I didn’t have a great answer for that. But I kept perseverating over the decision, until I installed a forcing function a year down the road: Pilgrimage 1.0. I figured if I felt differently after 28 days walking through Scandinavia, I could always go back. That was 2024; clearly I haven’t.

All that to say, this territory is not unfamiliar. But I still felt woefully unprepared when I started feeling the next inklings it was time to let go of something… the something being the vacation home my late husband built for us in the Outer Banks.

That sun-dappled, soundfront masterpiece was one of Mike’s mastodon moments: his nose-to-the-grindstone work had generated an unexpected windfall for his firm, along with a hefty bonus for him. And all he wanted to do was use it to provide for us. With his vision and my consultation, we alchemized that windfall into a family destination, a breezy bungalow on steroids overlooking the Currituck Sound.

But 14 years later, what was once a family haven had become a millstone around my neck. It was still sun-dappled and breeze-laden, it was also firmly in its maintenance tail: HVACs failing, trees dying, hurricanes rolling up and down the Atlantic coast. I began to be filled with catastrophic dread every time I opened the front door: what would be broken, leaking, deteriorating now? Again… this is not the version of myself I want to be.

But on the other hand, what about the memories this place held? 4ft tall Connor and 3ft tall Kendall playing ‘I’m still on the raft’ in the pool, trying to pull Mike off the inflatable mattress. Cousins from Ohio and Texas and Maryland and Australia in epic nerf-gun battles from their bunks. A sunscreened grandparent on pool duty in the backyard playing referee and counting heads. Aunts and uncles sitting around the long kitchen table post-dinner, talking about RV-adventures and trips to Beaver Creek. And my contribution: making every frozen mixed drink in the Vitamix cookbook.

What do you do with that? That combo platter of good and bad, of joy and pain, of cherished moments and roto-rooter repairmen?

I think what finally let me put the beach house on the market was realizing that it was antithetical to the life I want to lead. The red thread running through so many of my choices from childhood to today has been freedom. I think it’s why I head out on the pilgrim path, why white space on the calendar gives me a thrill, why solitude is my go-to. And an aging family home is the opposite of freedom, no matter how many memories it keeps alive.

It was time to move the last evidence of Mike from a house on the Outer Banks into our hearts.

And so, I did. Not with grace and aplomb. With tears and pain, second only to the aftermath of Mike’s death. To be honest, I’m totally fried. Crispy as a potato chip, and just as apt to snap. It’ll take a little time to get myself back.

One grace note: in taking that leap of faith, the universe caught us. A family just like us — well, just like we used to be — appeared. Three kids this time: 4, 10 and 13. A couple who loved what we built, their cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles ready to fill up the rooms and picture frames. The house will again be filled with the squeals from the pool, never-ending sand on the tile floors, sunburned shoulders.

Mike knew how to build something with total devotion. And in his devotion to me, I’m not surprised he supported me letting it go too.

Heart cracking,

Sue

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When I travel to foreign countries, I notice things.

The slight pull-back of a Norwegian’s shoulders that indicates I’ve invaded their personal space. How I get mysteriously taller whenever I journey from Scandinavia to Amsterdam to London. The NASA logo on locals’ t-shirts, no matter where in the world I am. (Honestly still baffled by this one.)

But a recent no-passport-required boondoggle through eight states and three airports showed me just how much there is to notice in the US of A.

As I planes-trains-and-automobiled it across swathes of America, I first dipped a toe in a few states — Tennessee, Alabama and Mississippi –- blazing my way in Kendall’s Subaru down to New Orleans. After one thousand miles of books-on-tape (In Search of Now by Jo Marchant and The Disappearing Act by Maria Stepanova), I began the ‘linger’ portion of my agenda. Louisiana got me for a few days. Texas next. Then three different towns in Colorado.

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Here’s what stood out:

Friendliness: In some places, baristas will chat you up, ask where you’re headed, give you recommendations for where to get lunch. Some will respond to your “How’s it going” with a blank stare, just waiting until you order. And go away.

Food: The deeper into the Southeast I got, the less likely I was to see a Whole Foods, but the more likely I was to smell something delicious just in the air.

Preferences: In the Houston airport, it was all cowboy hats and tacos. At the Denver airport, it was Patagonia backpacks and dogs. When I got back to Dulles in DC, it was brief cases and international languages.

Police cruisers: Pickup trucks in Alabama, Dodge chargers in Tennessee, Ford Explorers in Colorado. Boring sedans in Virginia.

Rules and orderliness: I won’t name names, but in some places everyone follows even unspoken agreements, like walking around the park clockwise. In others, literal laws are mere suggestions. There are places where not paying the parking meter is a gamble that 90% of people take.

Billboards: Folks, it’s all injury lawyers, all the time, on our nation’s highways. ‘No fee unless we win!’ ‘We fight for you!’ ‘Been the victim of a marauding 18-wheeler?’ But the standard white-guy lawyers plastered up there look different: way more hair in Louisiana, way more cowboy hats in Texas. The level of exclamation marks and hyperbole also differ (very little in Colorado, the most in Louisiana). I think in a blind test I now could identify a state by its ambulance-chaser ads.

I know we all share 99.9% of the same DNA or whatever the hell that statistic is, but I think that’s a meaningless number. Chatting with a barista in Birmingham or an ultramarathoner in Colorado Springs, I already know they have a heart and teeth and cells with chromosomes just like me, big whoop. The differences are what I find delightful, the differences are what open me up to how big and varied the human experience really is… which brings me to the last leg of my journey, sitting on the couch of an Airbnb in the Vail Valley.

After a lung-searing hike with a 2,000 foot-altitude-gain that afternoon, me and my glass of Gruner Veltliner were ready to kick back. My plan was to watch Voicemails for Isabelle, a romcom with a side of loss — right up my alley. So I grabbed the slick little remote and pressed the convenient red NETFLIX that even this luddite couldn’t miss.

But when the Netflix home screen loaded, I shook my head back and forth, ponytail flopping in confusion. Shows called Allegedly, El Chapo, and War Machine filled the home screen. My Netflix home page is usually stacked with esoteric documentaries (Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold), food shows (Chef’s Table: Barbecue), sports (Beckham, Full Swing). Not Donnie Brasco or Snowden or The Downfall of Boeing.

Then at the top left of the screen I noticed a big blue box with that lopsided Netflix pixel grin, the name ‘Thomas’ hanging off to the right.

I’ve never met Thomas. I don’t know what he looks like, where he’s from, his hopes and dreams. But right then, in that instant, I actually knew a lot about Thomas. Staring at his “recommended for you” and “continue watching” lists, it was like the roller blind shielding Thomas’s inner world went zinging up with a muffled rattle. I stared at Thomas’s Netflix, dumbfounded. Holy heck! So… different.

I could be put off by that fact. I could be tempted to “other” people who are into different things than I am. Or, I could want to try to close the distance between us, perhaps insisting they see the world the way I do… I did briefly consider pulling up Voicemails from Isabelle on Thomas’s account. Then he forever would have been served up romcoms in his feed: People We Meet on Vacation, Nobody Wants This, etc. Without knowing how or why it happened, he might have gotten a little taste of me, my preferences, my interests, my love for pop culture that mixes loss with living.

But that didn’t seem fair or right to infect his algorithm. So I logged out of Thomas and logged in as Sue, reminding myself to logout before I left the Airbnb in a couple days.

The least I can do is give Thomas in the Rockies, the cowboys in Texas, the foodies in NOLA, and the backpackers in Denver space to be the way they want to be. Who are any of us to say which way of dressing, talking, eating, relating to rules, designing billboards is better. Which way is right. I think that inclination gets in the way of what our first instinct should be: curiosity.

To the shocking, delightful variety,

Sue

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“I hope the blade is long enough!”

The maintenance man lifted his tattoo-covered arm to adjust his safety glasses, their ends tucked snugly underneath his skull cap. He smoothed down his Rip Van Winkle beard, then started up his hand-held circular saw with a vhrrrrrrrrrrr.

“Stand back, we’re gonna make some sparks!” he said without looking at me, locked in on his task with little boy glee.

I laughed and slunk a few steps backward in the hotel hallway with that combo feeling of wanting to be part of the action… but not wanting to lose an eye.

In a few minutes, it was all over — the jammed lock on my Colorado Springs hotel room door lay in pieces on the floor. Mr. Maintenance Man and I exchanged a quick ‘holy s**t!’ glance, then burst out with a belly laugh.

“Sorry about the wait while we figured this out, and really sorry this happened. Thanks for staying with us,” he said.

“No problem at all,” I replied. “No problem at all.”

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For seven years, Colorado Springs was my home away from home.

Five months after Mike died, I began my last corporate gig at a small US defense contractor. Like any true Beltway Bandit, we had a Virginia office, but Colorado Springs was HQ. So once a month that’s where I was too: driving past the swooping cathedral of the Air Force Academy on my commute from the Denver airport. Pausing during meetings while the jets from Peterson Air Force Base roared overhead. Taking a crack of dawn yoga class where the thin air had me gasping for breath, and then I’d inevitably start crying during legs-up-the-wall pose.

But it’s hard to see much of a city when your only free time is 6-7am. I managed to squeeze in early morning walks in the Garden of the Gods, peanut-butter-and-banana toast at Loyal Coffee, and those cathartic yoga classes. But with that limited exposure, I only got the tiniest of impressions of the Springs, as if an opaque curtain was pulled in front of my eyes and all I could see were the blurry shapes of people and places I rushed by between meetings. So last week, when I returned to Colorado Springs for the first time in three years, my only goals were to 1) be there for a friend going through a hard time, and 2) finally get to know the place I had driven around, done business in, and cried during yoga so many times:

I hiked the Palmer Point trail, ogling the striated spires of lumpy sandstone and the views of Pike’s Peak. I lingered at Loyal Coffee long enough to chat with the barista about her Kermit pin. “I just saw a skit with Dolly Parton chatting up your famous frog — we’ll sure miss her, won’t we? At least we know Kermit will never leave.” I walked the downtown streets, with their mix of retirees, fitness freaks, cowboys, mountain bikers, bible beaters, bohemian hippies, average Joes, and so many homeless. The larger-than-lifesize photo of Kevin Durant in his Olympic uniform in the window of the US Olympic Committee’s HQ still made me jump.

Through it all, I took my time. Because, you know, no work emergencies, no HR disasters, no lost or won deals to celebrate or mourn. Just a chance to visit some good friends in their time of need, while also seeing a city I thought I knew, anew.

And it could have been as simple as all that. Until the jammed door made its grand entrance.

I sat on the floor outside my hotel room, cooling my heels while the staff scrambled trying to figure out how to get me back in to my room. Other than my tote bag containing my pen case, iPad, and three random books, all my belongings were trapped inside. And it was time to check out and head to Denver to see Connor. I waited for the urgency, the anxiety, the stress to start buzzing beneath my skin. But I felt… calm? If my belongings had been locked in my room during my corporate days, I’d have been stuck to the ceiling. I would probably have been late for a flight, a meeting, at the very least a call. But here, now, I wasn’t any of those things. So the twenty minutes that passed before Mr. Circular Saw showed up, were… well, a giant nothing burger. They elicited no feelings at all. I just sat.

Which made me think about Corporate Sue. And wince. She would have been impatient, angry even. She’d have been pacing the hallway, getting more and more red in the face. She might have been, as much as I hate to admit this, rude.

But instead, I got to watch Rip Van Winkle circular saw his heart out. I got to chat with the tattoo-sleeved head of housekeeping and her two trainees. I got to pass some time just waiting. I got to be a human being, emphasis on the being.

Sometimes we need a mirror to see how far we’ve come. Trying to reflect in a vacuum can only go so far. The mirror in my bathroom shows me things have changed (crepey neck, crows feet), as does the fit of my pants. Internally, I can know my patience for BS has reduced in size, like the water in Lake Tahoe. But other changes are harder to note… because there is no measuring stick to line them up against. No before-and-after to compare, side by side.

But that’s what Colorado Springs just did for me.

I understand why Corporate Sue was the way she was, and I don’t begrudge her for it. Holding a c-suite job while solo-parenting teenagers would fray anyone around the edges. But I’m glad I didn’t get stuck there. I’m glad that when given the opportunity to change, to relax, to open, to become more myself and less what external circumstances dictate, I’m able to take it. I’m glad I can now grin and gasp at the sparks of the circular saw, rather than checking my watch and glaring at the man holding it.

To old things made new,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

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Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

It’s 6:30am, and I’m doing soggy laps around Audubon Park, the Fahrenheit scale just shy of triple digits.

You can’t quite fry an egg, but steaming spinach is a distinct possibility. The pond’s ducks look like they could be in a Natural-History-Museum diorama, floating completely stationary thanks to the thick, pea green algae carpeting the water’s surface. Crape Myrtle blossoms break loose from their branches and hang in the air like suspended confetti. Gravity may be a natural law on earth, but it’s no match for whatever forces exist in the steamy vortex of mid-August New Orleans.

Everything feels like it’s moving stun-gun slow. Which is perhaps why I see anew a thing I’ve seen dozens of times before: a granite pavilion glowing hazily in the immobile air. My sluggish steps steer me towards its flank, where I read the engraved text:

Dedicated to Music

In Memory of Isidore Newman and Rebecca Kiefer Newman

1921

The Newmans’ names are all over this town, tangible evidence of Isidore’s 19th century philanthropy, of which music was a special love. But as I slide around the pavilion’s far side, I see this:

And The Night Will Be Filled With Music

And The Cares That Infest The Day

Shall Fold Their Tents Like The Arabs

And As Silently Steal Away

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Most of my life, music was something I could take or leave.

Sure, I sang in the school choir, trilled along to my dad’s faves Jim Croce and Simon & Garfunkel from the back of the family Vega, and absorbed the hymns of my Presbyterian upbringing so deeply into my psyche that sometimes they spring forth unbidden (Up From the Grave He Arose, anyone?). But I personally wasn’t an album purchaser or a mix-tape maker. I didn’t own a boom box or cassette player. Any pocket money made from lifeguarding or teaching swimming lessons was hoarded in my sock drawer, to be occasionally splurged on a book. Come to think of it, it might have been the long-distance swimmer in me that turned music into a second-class citizen. Lap after lap with only my own thoughts for company, I got comfortable with silence.

Then, I married a singer. Music filled the house in the form of cassettes, CDs, Pandora. Broadway soundtracks, Celine Dion, Seal. Christmas choir music. System of a Down. My musical omnivore husband played it all, while simultaneously belting it out with his rich bass voice. My love for him intertwined with all he loved, and so I was opened to music in a way I’d been closed before.

Fast forward to the post-catastrophe years, and that fortuitous opening turned into a critical input: music as a salve. I’d play songs that Mike used to sing around the house. Seal’s Love’s Divine. Bill Wither’s Lovely Day. I started collecting new ones whose lyrics encapsulated his love for me, since his own voice could no longer carry that message. Famous by Mason Ramsey topped that list. All of these I gathered into an Apple playlist, with the album image his broad-smiled picture. I titled it Mikey.

Somehow on that soupy slow morning, those granite words grabbed me by my sweat-soaked REI T-shirt and yanked me nose-to-nose with the memory of the playlist, of the picture… but mostly of the effect. The way those carefully assembled songs always sent the super-sized cares that infested those days, silently away. And in the quiet pocket that remained in their wake, I could commune with my no-longer-here husband.

Because I’m naturally curious (and a little skeptical), I want to understand the mechanism of how this works. How does music scoop us up like a hot air balloon, out of the “cares that infest the day” and into the awe and love of the upper atmosphere of life? But understanding each step of this process is beside the point. The point is that it just does. Over and over again, across generations, music comes to our rescue — and thus, we can rest in the confidence of a consoling tool that helps us not just tolerate the human condition, but transcend it.

For as long as a Bach fugue, a Springsteen story, a Taylor Swift lyrical twist exists, we may turn to it for solace.

Maybe that’s why Isidore Newman did it — gave such a large portion of his fortune to music, which once upon a time seemed relatively frivolous to me. He could have spent it all on hospitals or orphanages or libraries. But he knew that our bodies and minds aren’t the only things that need healing and nourishment. So do our souls.

In tune,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

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Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

I stood over the Treehouse sink, upside-down quart of milk in my hand, feeling the flimsy sides bulging and contracting as the 2% glub-glub-glubbed out. I wiped the splatters and tossed the container into the recycling, the last evidence of my daughter’s summer stay at home with me, disappearing down the drain.

We packed it all in this summer, which is the last before her senior year of college. Trips downtown for sushi, to the mall for shopping, to the Outer Banks for a last hurrah. We chattered like birds throughout it all, sharing ongoing processing debriefs of the pilgrim path (from me) and day-in-the-life reports and celebrations of corporate life (from her). We marveled at the Freaky-Friday-style swap out of our lives. We talked a lot about what her dad would have thought. And just like any jam-packed, big-laugh, late-night vacation, it feels like it was over in a blink.

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So as an act of memory preservation (and processing the stubborn remnants of empty-nest grief), I’ve been going back through the highlights of the last three months… and realizing that what I recall most aren’t the ‘events’ — the places we went or things we did. No. As I roll the recycling bin down the driveway past the buzzing bees, under the thick green poplars, what comes to mind are smells, sounds, and sights of being in the flesh with my powerhouse kid.

Most evenings, I’d be perched in my designated reading chair with a strategic view straight down the driveway. When the Mazda appeared around the corner with a signature Kendall zip, I’d jump up and flail-wave like those inflatables at a used car dealership. If I was too immersed in my book or newspaper and missed my cue, the sing-song beep of the security system as she entered the house always got my attention. My heart rate zero-to-sixteed in anticipation of the scolding “MOM!” echoing off the mudroom tiles, dripping with accusation for being asleep at the switch. I’d skip over and give her a kiss on the head, the smell of her shampoo and the DC streets wafting from her.

On weekends, we’d sit side by side at the kitchen island, her perfume mixing with the smell of my Dove soap, matching pony tails swaying as she gave me Instagram lessons, handing my phone back to me with the command, ‘ok, now you try it’. We’d retire to the couch, sharing our phones back and forth as we lay toe-to-toe on the sectional. She’d share depop bags and Mejuri bracelets and memes about moms not waiting at their kids’ beck and call. I’d share Erling Haaland videos, moms dancing with babies to Beat It, and the #lunchladiesoftiktok lipsyncing to Sheila E. I’d ask questions only a Gen Xer would, such as “Why do they call it doom scrolling? There’s no doom in my scroll.” She’d laugh and eyeroll in perfect synchrony.

Back scratches in bed. Faux battles over the volume on the remote and the last tortilla in the pack. An evening walk up the sea-green street. 12-minute mornings. I breathe in these memories, savoring their weight, their texture, like in another dimension we’re still side by side and the veil between worlds is thin.

While Kendall is at school, we’ll still talk/text/Facetime constantly, but being in the same space changes the stickiness of our encounters. 3D interactions sink in, making memories last in a way technology-assisted talking can’t quite seem to do. When I’m using all five senses to take this girl in, my body tells my brain to pay attention. Mark the occasion. Savor.

This summer, I got my cup filled with full-body memories safe from any recycling bin… which I’m going to need. Because, as if anyone doubted, it’s been confirmed: Kendall got a return offer. She’ll be moving to NYC after graduation. So my treasured horde of IRL memories will be my salve as our next season begins.

Feeling all the things,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

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Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle

Dear listener -

Hope your dog days of summer are treating you well. I had grand plans to lay on the floor and do nothing (except read) for the month of August. As per usual, life has other plans. So no new post this week, we are re-running one of my faves from a little over a year ago.

I’ll be back on the horse with something fresh for you next weekend. Thanks for being out there, I appreciate it beyond what words can express.

Sue

***

“Guess where I am!”

I texted my son Connor the picture of myself with a heart emoji. He was headed to bed halfway around the world, exhausted after fourteen hours in seat 46L before finally landing in Tokyo.

“FRANK!” He shot back, complete with crying-laughing emoji.

Frank Dining Hall. Colgate University’s version of the college cafeteria that makes you question how they’re charging highway robbery tuition for penal institution level food. I stared down at my tater tots. They looked back at me with equal disappointment.

“The food IS absolutely terrible here!” I replied.

“It always is! But I’m eating good out here in Tokyo! Enjoy Colgate, mom!”

Three weeks after Connor’s rain-soaked graduation, here I am again. Tater tots abandoned, I drive back to the cute-as-a button cottage I’ve rented ten times over the last four years. The rough hewn work table is strewn with workshop pdfs, craft talk notes, and classmate manuscripts from the Colgate Writers Conference I’m currently attending. But I ignore the piles, drop my tote bag on the floor, and return to the rocking chair on the porch to watch the twilight fade. The trees are thick and green, cicadas are humming their summer symphony, and I’m wondering how a place I never chose became so perfectly mine.

***

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***

Hitchhiking on Someone Else’s Dream

Back in 2020, a college counselor put Colgate on Connor’s “to explore” list. Neither of us had ever heard of it. We visited on a February day so cold even this Pennsylvania girl questioned whether humans were meant to live this far north. He liked what he saw and he applied. He got in. But he’d also gotten into William & Mary, his dad’s alma mater… And yet, after one more visit, Connor said Colgate felt like “his place”. So I said, “whatever you want, honey” and sent in the tuition.

My first impression of Colgate? It was fine. I was happy Connor liked it. I was doubly happy I could drive up from Virginia in an afternoon. But Colgate didn’t make me swoon. It mostly made me grateful I lived farther south.

But here’s the thing about places you don’t choose: if you lean in, they can surprise you.

First, I found the postage-stamp sized bar with the decent wine and comfy vibe. Then I found a walking route through neighborhoods with front porches that belong on postcards. Next, the startlingly named Price Chopper grocery store that somehow carried everything I needed. Finally, the cross-country trail through the woods where I could think without interruption.

Trip after trip, year after year, I built my own relationship with Colgate and the surrounding town of Hamilton. So when an email about a writers conference on campus landed in my inbox, I didn’t hesitate. Not because I’d fallen in love with Connor’s school, but because I’d fallen in love with what I’d carved out there.

That’s the secret about unchosen circumstances. You can’t control what lands in your lap, but you can absolutely control what you do with it.

Unfortunately, I’ve become an expert at this.

What I’m Not Supposed to Say

Eight and a half years ago, I got handed a life I never would have ordered. Single parenthood. Solo decision-making. Holidays that felt slightly lopsided no matter how hard I tried. If someone had told me in 2016 that I’d not only survive Mike’s death but actually cherish parts of the life that came after, I’d have suggested they check themselves into the funny farm.

Yet here we are.

I’ve discovered things I love about my widowed life that feel taboo to admit.

Like how I can decide last-minute to go on a trip, no negotiating the dates, the activities, whether we get burgers or sushi. How Connor and I developed this shorthand that comes from being a two-person team. How I get to be entirely myself in my house — no compromising on the thermostat or the volume of my music or whether we watch another episode.

I remember maybe two years after Mike died, I caught myself humming while organizing a closet. Just, you know… happy. Happy in the life I had come to have.

The guilt hit like a brick wall. Should I be this content? This... unbroken?

I’ve struggled with that worry on and off since. It comes up many times when I write a post for you, dear reader. “Will they think I’m a monster for admitting I love this life? Should I show more grief, more regret?”

But Colgate is showing me how ridiculous that guilt is. I can love this upstate campus without diminishing any other place I’ve been happy. I can appreciate my favorite trail here while still missing other paths I’ve taken.

Loving different versions of your life works the same way.

I never chose to support Connor through college applications alone. But I discovered I’m pretty good at it. No committee meetings in my kitchen. No lengthy discussions about pros and cons. Just my gut, Connor’s instincts, and a willingness to trust both.

I never chose to travel by myself. But now I get to visit museums for exactly as long — or as short — as I want. I get to pick whatever play tickles my fancy, and leave halfway through when it’s a dud. I get to spend time deep in dedicated conversation with my far off friends in their towns.

I never chose to become Connor’s only parent. But wow, texting each other inside jokes as he travels through Japan is priceless; I love the bond that we have now.

And I can love this life, and still love Mike.

What We Do With What We Get

The truth is, most of our lives are built on circumstances we didn’t choose. The family we’re born into. The economy we graduate into. The health we inherit. The losses that reshape everything.

We spend so much energy wishing things were different instead of discovering what’s possible within what is.

I’m still learning this. Still sometimes catching myself humming in closets and wondering if I should feel guilty. Still amazed that a campus in the middle of nowhere New York became one of my favorite places on earth.

But I’m getting better at trusting the process. At finding my walking trail, my dive bar, my cottage with a view of the forest. At building something beautiful out of whatever each day hands me.

The tater tots are still terrible. But the view from this porch?

Perfect.

Making the most of it,

Sue

Subscribe to Substack to receive The Luminist in your inbox every Saturday — an invitation to notice reality, rather than the stories our minds and culture like to spin: https://theluminist.substack.com/

Order Sue's Book - Do Loss: A New Way to Move Through Change here: https://suedeagle.com/book 

Find books and stories to support your journey in the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. You can find it on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/@suedeagle