When the Dust Settles

I've started writing this blog more than once.

The first version was about integrity.

It sounded lovely.

It was also, if I'm completely honest, written by a protective Mumma who wanted her beautifully constructed words to land exactly where they hurt.

So I didn't publish it.

A few weeks have passed.

I don't believe I'm still angry. But I am still disappointed, and I think a part of me always will be. There are some actions I simply can't justify.

But the dust has settled enough for me to see things I couldn't while standing in the middle of it.

When Someone Leaves a Family

A relationship ended.

Not mine.

One of my children's.

But after three years of someone being woven into the everyday fabric of our home, it wasn't only those two people who felt it.

It rippled outwards.

The whole family felt it.

And just like my son feels deeply, so too does his Mumma.

I don't think that part caught me off guard.

Perhaps what did was just how complicated that grief could be despite having reservations.

There were things that hadn't sat comfortably with me for some time, and part of me had wondered whether these two people were ultimately heading in different directions.

But knowing something might not be right doesn't mean you don't grieve when it ends.

I was furious about the way it happened.

A younger version of me probably would have sent the message and said the words I desperately wanted to say.

I could be incredibly sharp-tongued when I was hurt.

The problem was, I always felt horrible afterwards.

Not necessarily because my anger wasn't justified, but because deliberately hurting someone went against something fundamental in me.

Apparently maturity doesn't mean you stop thinking the terrible things.

It just means you become slightly better at not pressing send.

Who knew?

So I kept returning to one question:

Who do I want to be when this is over?

Sometimes integrity isn't particularly graceful.

Sometimes it's being absolutely furious and still choosing not to be cruel.

That isn't weakness.

It took me a long time to learn that.

And Then There Was My Boy

This was the part that frightened me most.

Watching your child experience heartbreak is bloody awful.

You can't fix it.

You can't reason it away.

You can't convince someone who feels rejected that another person's choice isn't evidence that they weren't enough.

And when their hurt turns to anger, it's difficult to tell them their anger isn't helping when, truth be told, you're angry too.

So you stay.

And apparently, if you're our family, everybody stays.

On one of those first nights, all of our kids made sure they were home.

There was homemade pizza and a movie.

Nobody asked them to come. They just knew one of theirs was hurting.

Mark and I quietly cleaned the kitchen afterwards instead of delegating the usual jobs.

We didn't need to discuss why.

The kids had already done the important work that night.

They'd shown their brother:

You've got us. We've got you.

And slowly, I started noticing something.

My boy was coming back.

Not because somebody rescued him, and not because heartbreak magically became a good thing.

He simply started re-engaging with his life.

He became more present at home.

He reconnected with old friends.

There were random road trips.

He substantially reduced something he'd been relying on far too heavily to switch off from life, eventually having days without it altogether.

He started looking for work.

Then he got a job.

And he loved it.

We have a saying in our family:

"It's all fun and games until ..."

And because apparently the universe enjoys proving us right, not long after starting the job we found ourselves in the emergency department after a workplace injury resulted in five stitches to his thumb.

Of course we did.

Somewhere amongst all this, he also cut off his long brunette curls.

But the biggest change wasn't the hair.

It was his light.

The sweet, funny, social young man whose light had become harder to see was finding his way home to himself.

The Things We Miss

Something else took me longer to admit.

I miss things too.

For a while I struggled with admitting that because I don't want that chapter reopened.

Then I realised:

I can miss something without wanting it back.

I can cherish those moments for what they were, in that particular season.

There were beautiful parts.

There were painful ones.

Both are true.

I don't need bitterness to rewrite the beautiful memories, or nostalgia to rewrite the painful ones.

What Remained

Perhaps that's what I've learned most.

When something ends, we're often so focused on what has gone that we don't immediately notice what remains.

What remained here was family.

A loud, opinionated, occasionally overwhelming family that has absolutely no idea how to do anything quietly.

We interfere.

We annoy each other.

We have expectations.

We congregate in kitchens.

We show up in ridiculous numbers.

And I've spent more time than I'd like to admit wondering whether the way I love my family is simply too much.

Maybe sometimes it is.

But when one of ours fell, nobody had to be asked to catch him.

They just did.

And I think that's what home is supposed to be.

Not somewhere that prevents you from ever being hurt.

Somewhere safe to hurt.

I'm still learning.

Personal growth, I've discovered, is incredibly inconvenient when you have a really good comeback.

But I'm learning that peace doesn't require me to pretend something didn't hurt.

Some seasons are simply meant to end.

We can appreciate what was beautiful, learn from what wasn't, and let them remain finished.

And sometimes, when the noise finally settles, we look across the room and notice something we were terrified we'd lost.

A familiar light.

Still there.

Maybe a little bruised.

Maybe a little wiser.

And in our case, with considerably less hair.

But there.

Welcome home, my sweet boy.