A few months into the grieving process after my mom passed away April 18, 2023 and I could already hear a voice in my head telling me to “move on”. That somehow if I buried the memory of my mother further and further in the depths of my psyche, that if I only let myself be happy, then her memory would fade and I could go on with living my life.
Obviously this wasn’t the only voice I heard. I experienced a lot of sadness, anger, guilt- you name it. And the further I tried to suppress the feelings, the more potent they would get. Because without release, they just forced me to twist my emotions in a way that didn’t reflect the reality I was living in. I had lost my mom and my best friend when I was 37 years old. And nothing – no dissociation, no amount of throwing myself into other things could change that.
On top of the loss of my stepfather five months before my mom passed away, I had to numb my feelings. I couldn’t let myself feel the depth of sadness I truly felt because I had to clean out and sell my childhood home, get through the funeral and shiva, deal with the estate and death bureaucracy (an ongoing pain in the ass), design and pay for a tombstone, and more. There was so much to “do” that I couldn’t just “be”.
On top of that, I was working in a toxic professional environment where my boss told me point blank: “Matt, when you started this job, you were so enthusiastic. Then you lost your parents and you lost your motivation.” As if somehow losing motivation after losing two parents in five months was unreasonable or irrational.
I made one of the best decisions of my life the day my boss told me such utter and cruel nonsense. I walked into her office and I quit.
Since late October 2023, I have worked part-time doing my communications consulting business that I’ve had for over a decade. But mostly, I took time to focus on myself. I focused on my health, increasing my exercise and working with a nutritionist to improve my diet. I’ve lost fifteen pounds and more importantly, I am starting to feel better.
In addition, I’ve built strong friendships and relationships. That’s something my mom really emphasized to me in her waning days on this planet. It’s the people who matter. And I’m truly blessed to be surrounded by a tremendous group of empathetic and supportive friends who’ve made this year so much more bearable and even at times, fun.
I did important therapeutic work, using both art and talk modalities to express conscious and subconscious emotions. I even look forward to my art therapy, as I can use my creativity to work on issues in an almost playful way.
I joined a bereavement group for young people who had lost parents. This allows me to connect with other people in my circumstance who get things viscerally and personally. It gives me the chance to feel accepted and acknowledged in community with others who are going through incredibly tough times and making it through it despite it all.
I started dancing again! As a little kid, I used to prance around the living room to the soundtrack of Phantom of the Opera. In college, I joined and choreographer for an Israeli dance troupe and performed in Latino, West African, and Indian pieces. Since my parents passed away, I couldn’t find the joy in movement anymore. That is, until recently, when I picked up Latin dance classes and started reconnecting with the DC Israeli dance community.
While I’ve spent the better part of my mom’s three and a half year cancer battle angry at God and disconnected and confused about my own spirituality, I now feel an itch again to explore. Being angry at God won’t bring my mom back. And while I may not believe in a God that actively makes decisions or works in the world, I do feel a desire to live in community as a Jew and rediscover what that means to be.
Today I went to see the cherry blossoms in Washington, D.C. where I live. They were beautiful. I went with a friend. We took pictures and smiled and played “tourist”. Just like me and my mom would do every single year since I was a little kid.
Mom- they were gorgeous. I remember you asking me, in the last few weeks of your life, to go down to the Tidal Basin and to take pictures with them to send to you as you were stuck on your deathbed. To give you perhaps a sense of joy and freedom from the awful, painful, isolating monotony you had to endure at the end of your life.
I hoped at the time those pictures would bring you some relief. Not only that I would carry on our tradition of visiting the beautiful cherry trees we so adored. But also because it meant I would move forward with my life. Not “move on”. Not leaving your memory behind. But forward. One. Step. At. A. Time.
That is the meaning I’ll always hold on to when I see these beautiful trees. Your kindness, your love, the many fond memories we had together. And my commitment to take care of myself and move forward. To let myself feel both sadness and joy. To let myself feel all of the spectrum of emotions. To slowly and carefully let go of some of the numbness I needed to get through those first few months. To give myself the freedom to live a good life. Even though I know you can’t be in it in the way I wish.
Because that is what your death means to me. It means the fact that I’m crying right now is ok. In fact, it’s healthy. I cry because I love you and always will. I weep because you’re someone that I miss.
Grief never goes away. It evolves. My hope for the year ahead is that my mom’s memory can serve as inspiration for living a good, healthy, happy life. Exactly what she has always wanted for me. And I believe somewhere, somehow, she still wants it for me today.
Miss you now and always, mom.
Love,
Matt
Planting Roots Bearing Fruits 