Second Chance Series: 7/11
Day 13: Permission to Be Imperfect When Starting Anew
Welcome to The Second Chances Series, my 23-day writing experiment capturing the joy, mess, beauty, and meaning of my midlife wedding.
I recently got remarried at 57…
…to a widower….
…on a dangerously hot Midwestern summer day…
…surrounded by our seven grown kids and more second-chance energy than I could’ve imagined.
Every day from June 29 to July 21, I’ll post one unfiltered reflection based on moments and photos from our wedding day. I’m doing this to capture all the memories while they’re still fresh in my mind, and to reflect on all that I’m learning about love, grief, joy, and reinvention. And, you’re invited, as always, to share your own reflections on the day’s theme.
This series will also provide a behind-the-scenes look at how I think about and draft material for my upcoming book, co-edited with my husband, Eric, called We Began Again: Collected Essays on Second Chances.
Some portions of these wedding reflection posts will be free. Most will live behind the paywall to support this work. Thank you for being here.
SCHEDULE OF POSTS
6/29: We’ll Always Have To Start Somewhere
6/30: Beginning Again After Loss
7/1: Starting Over After Heartache
7/2: Fear of Reinjury
7/3: Courage to Start Anew
7/4: When Others’ Renewal Timelines Are Unlike Our Own
7/5: Looking More Forward Than Backward
7/6: The Importance of Acknowledging Loss
7/7: The Surprises of Starting Over
7/8: The Beauty of Beginning Again
7/9: Losing Black & White Thinking While Starting Over
7/10: The Magic of Embracing Stillness When Making a Comeback
7/11: Permission to Be Imperfect When Starting Anew
7/12: How a Community Grows When We Begin Again
7/13: Shock, Surprise, and the Hidden Impact of Starting Over
7/14: Hanging On When All Is Shattered, When All Your Hope Is Gone
7/15: Dealing With Disarray and Disharmony When Starting Over
7/16: Discomfort When Others Aren’t Ready to Begin Again
7/17: Allowing for New Dreams to Come True
7/18: Welcoming Unexpected Joy
7/19: Redefining Success the Second Time Around
7/20: Forgiving Yourself for the First Try
7/21: Final Reflection: Why We Begin Again
Day 13, July 11
Permission to Be Imperfect When Starting Anew
Today’s Reflection
July 11 is my younger sister, Beth’s birthday. She died suddenly in January of 2018. Milestones like her birthday, her death anniversary, and so many other special days often leave me thinking of the day I learned the news and went into shock.
The phone rang while I was home alone, and I answered without thinking. The voices on the other end told me Beth was dead.
Their news made no sense. It still doesn’t.
As I listened, I began pacing from the kitchen to the front door and back again, waiting for the kind of explosive reaction the moment seemed to deserve. But I didn’t scream or cry or fall to my knees.
I just kept pacing.
No sound came from my mouth. No tears came from my eyes. I think I kept moving because the alternative — stopping — would have shattered me.
On that day, I learned that shock doesn’t always look like drama. Sometimes it’s just silence…numbness…a body on autopilot while the heart tries to catch up.
We’re often taught to think that grief is supposed to look a certain way, but when the worst news hits, we don’t always wail or collapse. Sometimes we freeze. Sometimes we function. Sometimes we don’t react at all.
And sometimes, survival sounds like silence.
Which brings me to this month’s theme for We Began Again:
Permission to be imperfect when starting anew.
Beth’s death shattered my sense of normal. And, when I finally began to move forward, I carried so much self-judgment. Was I grieving wrong? Should I have reacted differently? Was my anger about her death too much for some people? I desperately wanted to talk about her — and about what happened — and I was upset that some of my loved ones didn’t.
What I’m learning is that starting over doesn’t always begin with clarity. Sometimes, it starts with silence.
After Beth died, I entered a fog I didn’t know how to name.
I remember very little from the weeks and months that followed. I’d offered to help clean out Beth’s apartment, but I don’t remember who told me not to — or why I didn’t insist. Maybe I was too afraid to upset others? I certainly didn’t ask if I could keep anything of hers. I didn’t know what was allowed.
I’d always believed that, after a loved one dies, there will be artifacts, like pieces of clothing, or books, given to those left behind. But, after Beth died, we held no such ritual. There were no clothes, no framed photos, no books or letters or mementos offered. I had nothing to touch or hold or smell or tuck into a pocket or a book. The photos I already had of my sister became my most precious possessions, and the pictures I received from others were (and are) treasured, invaluable gifts. These images were the only physical and digital pieces of evidence I had that proved we’d shared a life.
One of the hardest things—harder even than the loss itself—was feeling that I couldn’t talk about my sister’s death. The grief in our family was so big, so raw, that I grew afraid to speak of it. I didn’t want to make things harder for anyone else.
When I brought up the idea of writing about Beth’s death — not to expose secrets, but to possibly help other families avoid the kind of devastating loss we’d experienced — the force of one of my loved ones’ reactions stunned me. It was so out of character that I went quiet and didn’t dare ask anything else after that. I tucked away my questions. I didn’t feel safe asking them.
At some point, I summoned the courage to share again that I hoped to write about Beth’s death. I proceeded with caution, hoping to open a door, not kick one down.
But this time, I was warned not to speak.
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