I cry a lot

What happens when I’m trying to live out what I'm dubbing my "inner child summer"

We’re up in Michigan, and it’s everything you could ever want summer to be. The days are sun-washed and emerald with lake water, and the pink sunsets last until ten o’clock at night. Then everything turns blue, and the fireflies fill the fields—it's like being in a dream. I cry a lot because everything is so beautiful, but also because I’m sad and scared about what comes next. Growing up, I wasn't allowed to cry, or I was too scared to, so I’ve never been able to access this part of myself. But now, in my ‘it’s okay to feel my feelings’ era, I’m learning that means crying a lot. 

I cry because my family loves me so honestly and purely that I wonder what I did to get this lucky. I cry because my friends feel like family and they love me the very same way. And I guess I don’t know how to be loved without crying over the sheer magic and warmth of it. I cry because my son exists and he’s the best thing to ever happen to me. I cry because my dog’s ink-black snout is turning salt-and-pepper, and he sleeps most of the day. I cry because my husband is so kind and so stunning, and I think maybe one day he will wake up, see how inherently good he is, and leave me. I cry because the wind in the trees sounds like the ocean, and isn’t that just incredible?

I cry because I haven't felt this financially unstable since my early twenties, when I was living in a shitty apartment over Hollywood Boulevard, surviving on discount whiskey and peanut butter sandwiches. It's not that bad now. We're eating well enough because I prioritize my son's health above everything, but that's just it—my son. The stakes are so much higher now. I don't want him to grow up with the same feast-or-famine childhood that I experienced, yet here I am, repeating this fucked up pattern. He doesn't know it because I shield him from the worst of me, but I still cry about it when he's sleeping. 

I cry because everything matters so much, and sometimes I just want to shrug my shoulders and believe that everything will be okay. I cry because I'm tired and my energy is murky like swamp water. I cry because my father carries a sadness with him that is suffocating, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I cry because I look at old photographs of people I once knew and loved, or should have known and loved, but who are all dead, and sometimes it feels like there's so much loss that only tiny slivered pieces of us are left. I cry because my grandma, who was once the strongest person I knew, can no longer wash her own hair. I cry because I count the willow trees and I can hear the sound of my late grandfather’s voice in my head. I cry because my father turned sixty last November and he still comes home in blue jeans stained with oil and grease, just like he did in his twenties. Back then we said it was going to get better, and maybe it has, but still, his tall frame is wilted and his eyes are dim, and I wonder, did we [he] ever really have a chance? I cry because my sister-in-law told me that I’ve made all the right choices, but there’s an ache in my chest that tells me maybe she's wrong. I cry because, with every wrong choice, I’m letting my son down. I cry because I work so hard and it’s never enough and maybe that’s because I’m not enough.

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Before we left for Michigan, I was so stressed about finances that I thought maybe we shouldn’t go. I couldn’t stomach taking that away from my son (and myself), so I hustled and busted my ass alongside my husband to renovate the guest bedroom, making our house suitable for Airbnb. My plan was for the bookings to pay for both the renovation and the trip, and well, it did, but goddamn, it was a lot of work.

I knew I’d still be stressed about finances, but at least the trip was paid for. I gave myself a project to work on for our business—something that was less day-to-day working IN the business and more big-picture working ON the business. I needed to feel like I wasn’t just being irresponsible by coming here. I needed a purpose. A task. I told myself I’d work on the project I set for myself, and when I was not working on it, I’d let it go, put it away, and be present with my son, my family, and myself. I set the intention that when I wasn’t working, I’d be fully immersed not only in the present moment but in the spirit of play.

I dubbed this trip my inner-child summer and made a list of all the things I loved to do as a child (and even now), then sent it to my husband, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my father. The list came to me all at once, spilling out of me, as if my inner child was just waiting for me to invite her to play. It came easily, partly because I try to access play in the everyday living with my son, but also because I knew most of my summer would be spent in Michigan, where I spent many of my childhood summers and my heart already knew what it needed.

I grew up in the Mojave Desert of California, a real shithole if you want to know the truth, where everything was varying shades of beige with only the tiniest bit of joy—and you had to search like hell for it. My mother spent most of my childhood in prison, and my father was just trying to get by, carrying the same sorrow he's always had, only then he was strung out on meth and at one point even built a meth lab in the garage. He got so burnt out trying to care for my brother and me alone that he drove us over two thousand miles, only stopping for gas, to his parents' house in Michigan. They had thirteen acres with a garden and greenhouse where they grew their own food, chickens that I made my pets, two ponds filled with wildlife, and a hundred-year-old barn primed for adventure. It was everything childhood should be, and my dad knew it was a hell of a lot more than what he could offer us at the time, so he left us there for three months. That's where I made most of my favorite memories. It's where I felt safe, and the place that comes to mind so often when, in meditations, I'm asked to bring up a safe place.

On my list, I wrote a lot of things that I’d done there as a child, and now I get to live them out again, but this time with my son and from the knowing that everything really did turn out okay. I can show my inner child that Mom finally did get out of prison and she got sober. It took her an overdose, flatlining, a coma, and a month’s hospital stay, but she finally did it. Dad got sober too. He totaled his truck, killing his dog and breaking his neck in the process, but he finally did it. They got divorced, but they still love each other because when you go through hell and back together, the love never goes away, not fully.

I can show her that we got out of our dustbowl town. We built a beautiful life in the mountains that are always blue, where green-leaved trees cover the sky. I can show her that we’re safe, we’re loved, and we can cry as much as we need to. Maybe then she’ll stop being so scared of what comes next. I’ll show her my list, and maybe then she’ll see and feel the magic that’s on the other side of her worry, the other side of her fear. Maybe then she can let down her shoulders, take a deep breath, and play.

Here’s my list…

• Play at the beach

• Running freely — for no reason

• Trampoline

• No negative talk about self

• Lots of hugs and affection

• Not watching the time 

• Bare feet

• Playing make-believe with the kids 

• Homemade ice cream

• Bowling

• Mini Golf

• Watermelon

• Making wildflower bouquets/necklaces/crowns

• Chocolate-dipped soft-serve

• Watch the Sound of Music (only the good bit before Maria leaves)

• Watch Anne of Green Gables

• Rowboat on Grandma’s lake

• Roller skating

• Jump rope

• Hide and seek outside

• Nerf fights

• Playing dress up

• Making “potions”

• Bonfires

• Running through the sprinklers

• Dance parties 

• Rocking out to music

• Hand painting

• Wishing flowers

• Fireflies

What would you add to your list? If you’re open to sharing, let me know in the comments. I’m always looking for more joy to add to my list. More magic. More life.

Stay tuned for June’s wrap-up coming next week. As always, thanks for being here.