Brave

Posted on by Lauren

I only knew to ask because I had already lost someone to suicide. 

Every story is different. 

But the common theme is, 

No one ever saw it coming. 

So, how do we change it? How do we help?

We courageously ask:

Have you thought of ending your life?

It’s a terrifying ask because we don’t want to hear the answer I heard:

“Yes. Last month.”

All I could think is Thank God I didn’t wait a minute longer to tell this person:

You’re not alone. 

We are not giving up on you, even when you give up on yourself. 

It takes bravery to ask and for them to answer. 

It’s June now, but May we all be so brave to ask.

Just ask.

The Moon and Me

Posted on by Lauren

When my confidence is shaken and the doubt creeps in,

I find my way to the beach.

It’s here, with my toes gripping the sand, the salty breeze on my face and the crashing waves drowning out the noise in my head that I am grounded.

Life continues to amaze.

Despite the unexpected twists and turns, the ocean and nearly full moon visible at dusk remain.

No matter what is happening inland or in my head, I can always escape here.

Just the moon and me.

Known

Posted on by Lauren

Aside from the 37 hour labor, 11 days past her due date, she really was almost too easy, as a baby. She was 16 months before she walked; instead, she happily sat on any surface and entertained herself with her surroundings- be that toys, people or pine straw. 

I should’ve known.

It was 30 hours into labor when my midwife looked at me and announced: 

“This is not your story to tell.”

Time stopped. My heart stopped. My tears flowed. 

Aurora had two cords wrapped around her neck at birth, delaying her arrival for good reason. 

My midwife looked me dead in my eyes to tell me when to push, when to pause and suddenly, urgently, when, with a roar, to give it my all. 

From the beginning, my daughter and I have challenged one another. 

Now, the tween years- the ones everyone before me has warned of. 

I fruitlessly planned for Aurora’s birth. 

I refuse to plan for these next days. 

Instead, I meet her where she is, each day. 

Just like her birth, it’s not easy. 

It never was. 

We cry, we argue, we admit our mistakes and we hug. 

It’s exhausting and rewarding. 

My girl has been stubborn from the beginning. 

But with good reason. 

It’s her story to tell. 

Not mine. 

I should’ve known. 

Camille Vaughn Photography

Break

Posted on by Lauren

She was uncharacteristically angry. Snapping at her sisters with venom dripping from her teeth. 

Emmett and I looked at one another, eyes wide, silently wondering, “What in the actual hell?”

We chalked it up to stress before a big gymnastics meet. Perhaps she was feeling anxious. 

But her seething anger seeped from every crevice until finally, I took her aside and asked, “What is going on?”

And that’s when the dam of tears broke. She broke. 

“I’M SAD ABOUT OREO!”

Ohhhhhhhhh. Yes. This makes a lot more sense, now. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

Those that grieve obviously and openly (me). 

Those that grieve and move forward.

And those that bury and try to cope without ever fully addressing it. 

“Harper, trying to contain your grief without openly releasing it is like trying to contain your exploding slime. It will find its way out of its container.”

I encouraged her to write but she didn’t want to. “It will make me sad.” 

But you already are sad. 

Days later, she finally relented. 

She put on the sad music and allowed herself to get washed away in the flood of anguish that is losing a beloved pet. 

It’s too soon to know how much it helped but a writer myself, I know it couldn’t have hurt. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

We break. 

Thank You

Posted on by Lauren

I can’t admit to a silver lining because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to reverse the sudden loss of our beloved pet. 

But surely, I can recognize that in this time of deep grief and loss, our friends and family have surprised and overwhelmed us with great love. 

Oreo passed away the first night we were out of town. The news shook us and so did the minute we returned to an empty home ten days later. 

Grief consumed us the second we walked in-he wasn’t where we expected him to be. 

Instead, flowers were. 

Multiple bouquets of flowers, homemade cards and gifts greeted us, softening the deafening blow of his absence. 

In the weeks that followed, gifts continued to arrive- garden statues, grave markers, sun-catchers and a light memorial that we look at every. single. day. 

It’s no silver-lining. I wouldn’t trade this support for the life of our rabbit. 

But it sure is nice to know we aren’t alone in our grief; 

That our friends truly understand the depth of our loss and are brave-enough to acknowledge it. 

To ask us how we are doing, a month later. 

To hug us. 

To allow us to continue to cry. 

Thank you. 

Sad

Posted on by Lauren

“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.”

Anyone who has lost someone will tell you that grief is non-linear.

Some days you realize it’s been several hours since you thought of your loved one which then triggers a new wave of sadness, realizing how the passing time has shaped your grief. 

Grief surprises my family at any point, all throughout any regular day. 

Nights are the most challenging, when my daughters lie down to sleep and miss their bunny brother. 

Walking into the living room to see the empty fireplace where he sat upon his throne is hardest for me. And the other morning before school, when I went to grab a glass bowl out of the cupboard and realized it was the one we used as his water dish. I openly wept.

I had to correct my husband, someone who has never owned a pet before, when he referenced the point in time when we would “get over” our loss of Oreo. 

No. 

That’s simply not how grief works. 

You never, ever “get over” the loss. 

Instead, I recently came across an article about grief as a ball in a box that contains a pain button. In the beginning, the ball is large and almost always triggers the pain but in time, the ball gets smaller, hitting that grief button less often. Still, the intensity of the pain of the loss never dulls. It’s as if it just happened, no matter how much time has passed. 

When we first heard the shocking, tragic news, I encouraged my girls to grieve openly. Not to hide. Suppressing only prolongs. We wailed and howled. Each girl took turns collapsing into my arms; sometimes, I held all four at once. We were away from home and we were broken. 

Others nearby thought a close human family member must have died. When they learned it was “just” our rabbit, they were relieved and had a hard time understanding the intensity and duration of our sadness. 

“I’m sorry our grief makes you uncomfortable.” I quickly retorted.  

But I will never apologize for the open expression of our sadness. 

“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.” -Taylor Swift “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?”

Camille Vaughan Photography

Unstoppable

Posted on by Lauren

Don’t doubt me. 

Don’t you for a second Count. Me. Out. 

You only fuel my drive to prove you wrong. 

So lives the soul of my second daughter. 

Walking at 11 months, this child has been intent on besting her big sister from the start.

She has had something to prove since she was born.

She puts in the work and shames those who don’t. 

Harper has a drive I, her mother, envy. 

She wants it bad and she will do whatever it takes. 

Cautiously, I calm her intensity. 

Reminding her that she has an entire life, she cannot imagine, ahead of her. 

Yes, you can. 

No, you don’t HAVE to. 

You can, but you don’t HAVE to in order to survive. 

If you want it bad enough, there’s no doubt: its yours to claim. 

But never to prove anyone else. 

Only for yourself. 

You are unstoppable. 

Magic

Posted on by Lauren

“Dying on your couch while watching TV by yourself is a tragedy. Dying while doing something you love with every part of your body is magic. I wish you magic.”*

The entire premise of my New Leaf Parenting blog is that “Every Day is a Fresh Start”. There’s a lesson to be found in every great or minute facet of life. 

But sometimes there is tragedy.

As humans, I believe we are built to persevere, to overcome, even in the darkest of times. Surely survivors of The Holocaust and modern atrocities have taught us that. If they survived, we must. 

The truth is, the wind was knocked out of my lungs when my friend called to tell me she had discovered that our pet died the morning after we had left for our longest-ever 10 day vacation. 

He was “just a rabbit”. Not a human, not a dog or cat. Just a rabbit that happened to be my first pet since losing my precious dog to a rattlesnake bite when I was 12 years old. 

He was our first family pet, purchased at the beginning of the pandemic when we decided to homeschool our four daughters then ages, 2, 4, 6 and 8. 

We called him our “therapy rabbit” because he was forever patient- if the girls were loud, he would form into a “loaf”, blocking out the obnoxious sound. When the girls were sad, he would recline next to them, offering unlimited pets. They would nuzzle their face into his and he accepted their grief without question. 

He was my morning coffee buddy and my late-night snuggler. 

He died because he escaped his enclosure, unnoticed before we left town. Our last security video shows me and my husband ensuring his safe keeping but unbeknownst to us, he made his escape and met his end by another animal that night. 

I lie awake, thinking about his tragic, painful, lonely end. Was he scared? Did he feel betrayed by us for leaving town? 

He was so good to us, he deserved better. 

But then I read fiction to escape reality and come across quotes like the one above and I wonder, did he know we were leaving? 

Did he leave before he was left? Not knowing the dangers that lurked in the darkness?

Sometimes there is tragedy and no good lesson to be found. 

But I think I’ll sleep better if I believe Oreo died rebelling, refusing to be domesticated a day longer.

I think I’ll sleep better if I believe in magic. 

I wish you magic. 

* Napolitano, Anne. Dear Edward. New York. Random House. 2020.

Prevent

Posted on by Lauren

I remember. 

I wish I could but I never will forget the supreme loneliness I felt as a child. 

And I suppose that is why, as an adult, I feel so committed to seeing children.

Physical presence is not enough. 

Neither is saying “I care.” 

It’s action. 

Before I took the pills that landed me in the hospital, before I stood on the edge of the balcony threatening to jump, I cut myself as a way to ease the pain. 

I was 12 years old. 

So, when my daughter exhibits signs of distress, 

I take her seriously. 

When minimal interventions (intentional time together, changes to routine, etc.) fail to work, I take action: therapy, medication. 

Prevention is not easy

But it sure is preferred to regret.