Dear R
A few days ago, you asked, “Will I ever stop being tired?”
I didn’t have an answer then, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since and would like to offer three things.
The first is that most of the time the arrival of a second child is a transition. You know they are coming and to a certain extent you can get ready for it. You’re tired, yes, but it’s only a transition.
But when, as is your case, the second baby develops a lifelong health issue, their arrival is no longer a transition. It’s a lifequake.
Lifequake is a new word for me. In case it’s new to you, too, a lifequake is defined as an event that changes your life in the same sudden and dramatic way an earthquake might destroy a building. A car accident, being laid off, a terrible illness, or getting divorced can be lifequakes. The pandemic was a worldwide lifequake. Researchers say we’ll have three to five of them over the course of our lives and, on average, it takes five years to move through each one and find a new normal.
In Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami says this about them:
[O]nce the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.
Richard Rohr, a Franciscan mystic, suggests that lifequakes are an invitation:
The word change normally refers to new beginnings. But the mystery of transformation more often happens not when something new begins, but when something old falls apart. The pain of something old falling apart—chaos—invites the soul to listen at a deeper level and sometimes forces the soul to go to a new place. Most of us would never go to new places in any other way
I’d also like to offer an image I was given to describe what it’s like to move to a new culture and language. In the beginning, you feel as though you’re slogging through water so deep you’re on your tippytoes just to keep your nose above the water. Everything takes more time, more energy. The simple things of life are exhausting.
Then, as the weeks, months and years go by, the water recedes—down to your neck, your belly, your knees. Eventually, as you learn and adapt, there are only a few centimeters of water left. But the water never entirely goes away because you are not in your home culture, not speaking your heart language.
Will you ever stop being tired? I don’t know. You are on a journey no one would ever choose. You’ve gone through a lifequake, and the water is especially deep right now. Life will never be the same. Be kind to yourself.
Thank you to zac-durant-LiGTtFoyI2M-unsplash for the 1st picture and to daniel-j-schwarz-4HYC9meD7DM-unsplash for the 2nd.
Kathy Berklund-Pagé 