Sometimes the only thing we need to do is show up

My Dearest Friend,

A

fter we graduated high school as the two top girls in the class, you and I were flying high, between our cute outfits, having fun with makeup, and feeling very adultlike as we figured out our own schedules. We both had prestigious jobs, enjoyed our stellar shidduchim prospects (young, with personality, and straight A’s, and what we believed were deeply developed hashkafos and middos), and had our perfect lives and families planned out.

And the plan went through, or so we believed. We both got engaged, got married, and became mothers. We still talked over the phone, though not as often as we would’ve liked. We schmoozed about dinners and cleaning and schedules and work and how to balance it all.

When we spoke two days ago, you relayed your little one’s latest comments, and I heard your happy background noise.

Then, last night, you called again. And you were crying, sobbing. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. Your kids? Someone got hurt?

And then you told me everything. About shattered dreams and broken pieces. About your spouse’s addiction and messy schedules and long days and longer nights. About the shards of normalcy you’ve been trying to gather, shredding your hands in the process. About hiding, shielding your parents and in-laws, protecting your husband’s dignity. You told me about the struggles of conveying that picture-perfect family, down to the little red shoes and white socks with the tiny bows.

And my heart broke for you. I know that lonely feeling. Oh, how I know it, too.

We spoke for a bit. I didn’t want to turn the conversation into my own confessional, but I mentioned some of my struggles, and we understood one another.

We mourned the kabbalos in tzniyus, tefillah, lashon hara, and chesed that we couldn’t take on this year. Our kabbalos this year are to show up. Just to show up, every day — for our kids, our spouses, but mainly for ourselves. Our kabbalos include lots of iced coffees, and unfolded, but clean, laundry. Our kabbalos are to serve scrambled eggs and grilled cheese for dinner without apologizing to ourselves. Our kabbalos include religiously going to the gym to get the endorphins going. Our kabbalos include lots of deep breaths, mascara and glasses to cover up red eyes, and open palms, accepting.

Neither of us listened to shiurim this year on how to daven even when there are kids home with you. How to get into the Tishrei mindset, how to tap into the energy of Yom Kippur. We didn’t have the emotional energy or brain space for that.

But we know we’re the nashim tzidkaniyos the Gemara mentions, the ones who will bring the Geulah. Because we show up, every day. Without questioning, without knowing what the future holds. We pick up Magna-Tiles and dirty pajamas, even when all we want to do is crawl under our covers and wish it all away. We turn on the lights in the dark kitchen, even though Daddy used to do that, and hope that it illuminates and brightens our hearts and minds during this difficult time.

And when we fail, when we do dissolve into a muddy, messy puddle of tears and frustration and what-will-bes, we give up control. We understand that we are humans, with weird triggers and struggling emotions. And we let go. It hurts. Oh, it hurts a lot. But we let go, and we let G-d be the One to remind us, “You’ve got this. I’m still here. You can do this.”

Two deep breaths later, we go out to meet the kids’ bus.

I’ll be thinking about you, my dear friend. Take one step at a time. You’ve got this.

May this year be full of clarity, no matter how small or subtle. May it bring menuchas hanefesh to yourself and your spouse. May you find the strength to move forward, onward, even when no one knows.

With much love,

Your Friend

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 961)