I wish I could even remember what I was trying to teach the students that day, or what topic my after school course was when I got the email, (yes… email) that my house had been lit on fire and was currently being extinguished. I think the landlords even said ‘it’s all been taken care of.’ like it was a broken hinge on the door or someone mistakenly put my mail in the wrong slot.
Lights from fire trucks were blazing as I pulled up. The company who had been hired to fix the roof had lit it on fire by mistake when using a blowtorch. I entered looking for Whittaker, ignoring all the men who tried to talk to me about logistics and insurance.
He had been home alone, just a kitten at the time, and after searching and calling for him he finally appeared, shaking and scared. I pulled him to me and breathed him in, soothing his fears.
That’s when the phone rang:
“Your mom is dead.”
A high-pitched ringing in the ear and breath stopped in my lungs. At least the voice was familiar on the other end of the phone, gentle cool, begrudgingly giving me this tidbit of information, my grandmother.
Firefighters boots heavy on the floor behind me tracing patterns on the old wooden floorboards now covered in soot in water. The only words I could utter from my lips were “ okay” before ending the phone call and standing in the war zone in my own home, so different from how I had left it that morning.
Hands shaking, I dialed my new husband, I tell him that my mother has died, over 1000 miles away from my now ash soaked linen.
The cleanup crew sent in women, with mops and buckets, brooms, and towels. One of them stoped, noticing my tears. She ran to me giving her condolences on the fire, the loss of my possessions, the inconvenience of my displacement.
I allowed myself to confide in this woman, a stranger, that my mother has just died. Instinctively she reached out, pulling me to her chest, as I began to sob, my inhales catching her gentle perfume. She smoothed my hair and tells me she is sorry, comforting a little child in her arms.
Women do this, we sooth, comfort, give of ourselves to complete strangers, to loved ones, to the little children whose tears are hot and sticky on their cheeks. It is race-less, creed-less, genderless, to whom we give this love.
As women we feel such deep emotions, beautiful things like love and hope, and we can feel pain in others as if it was our own. It is such a powerful thing to be able to comfort, to lean into a woman and ask for help, to be given that help so freely. How powerful, how absolutely gorgeous in our divine nature, our truth.
From the literal ashes of my worst day on this earth I have rebuild myself, piece by piece.
This is the truth you have been needing to hear- If pain can be acknowledged and given comfort as if it was a little child; if you allow your self-love to be a balm, you will heal.
It is guaranteed.
It’s not easy, to push up against these big feelings; to allow yourself to fall to your knees in agony, to cry unapologetically, to beg God or the universe to ease your suffering, to feel every bit of the experience, but it is truly necessary. It passes. It is but a storm on a black sand beach. It is temporary.
You must experience it, know that you are indeed strong and worthy, you will be there at the other end of the storm. You will hear your own breath in your lungs, your heart beat in your chest. You will still be alive at the end of it. It is not the end.
You are not alone, you never were alone. The worlds women are here to hold you while you sob, even if it’s just in our hearts- we all feel you through the flames and darkness.
