Choosing the Camp With the Long Exhale

I woke up this morning and crying was right there — wandering through the

landscape of my mind, as it often does when sleep hands the reins back to

me.

I wandered, as usual, through the familiar camps of mothers and

grandmothers. You know the ones. I’ll name them.

First camp: those who never quit. We’ll call them Smothers.

Second camp: the ones who empty-nest well — you have to make an

appointment because they’ve followed new paths of curiosity and have

lives of their own.

Third camp: Grievers / Victims / Moaners / Loners — Sad Bummersville.

Enough said.

And the last camp I can see from here (though there may be more over the

horizon): Moms & Grans — Conscious Choice Campers.

These women are vetting for safety.

They choose intentionally. They respect boundaries — their own and

others’

. And let me be clear: they don’t have to like the boundaries others

set. Nobody cares whether you like someone else’s boundaries. They

simply value the golden rule: treat others as you want to be treated.

Here’s why I decided to hang out at this camp.

It was the only place where I could see a little light at the end of the tunnel.

The only place where my exhale was deep and long. It’s also where I made

a quiet decision: to stop letting my grief and loss be my calling card —

especially to myself.

The tricky part of recovering, over and over again, from being a woman

who loves too much is this:

self-abandonment almost always requires that I ignore or resist

honoring boundaries.That’s not easy to unpack.

My newest practice is to look for levity in my darkest corners. So this camp

metaphor swam into my head as I was grieving the loss of my relationship

with someone most beloved — someone who untethered from me.

I am a recovering woman who loves too much. In plain language, that

means: If I just say it the right way, try harder, love more… then they’ll

finally give me the relationship I want.

Lately, since I no longer have a primary bond with anyone — except myself

— guess who I’ve been running that old self-abandonment cups game on?

Me.

Myself.

The project, not the partner.

And if there’s one thing I truly adore about myself, it’s this: my willingness to

question my own thoughts and beliefs.

Right now, I want to live differently.

I want to have my own back.

Tell myself the truth.

Respect my need for reciprocal relationships I don’t have to manage.

Surrender to — and accept — reality.

Dare I say, cultivate love for reality.

Learn to live well with uncertainty.

Feed the sourdough mother.

And keep my sense of humor alive — my best friend and most reliable

resilience tool.

Because when life or emotion pounds me into the ground, I am the

mother/grandmother with the magnificent nail puller — my back-the-fuck-up

attitude — who reaches for the Dewalt screw gun and says:

“Alright. Let’s do this.”