Today is my 1-year blogiversary. That fact alone warrants a little self-reflection, but the larger truth is that there are overwhelming things going on in my life right now, and the reflection they deserve is so enormous that I am feeling swallowed whole by the responsibility.

And I don’t want to talk about any of it.

I am sitting here at my computer, wondering how to acknowledge my first year of blogging but I mostly want to dig a deep hole and ease myself down into its depths.

I have built my marriage, my parenting style, even my career, on communicating, sharing, talking it out. But now the very last thing I want to do is open my mouth.

My tribe of friends and family, so generous and caring, wants to shoulder some of my pain. But I am holding things tightly and protecting my heart. What is there to say, really? Anything I share will be both too much and not enough.

I am a relatively private person, but somehow I’m also a person who thrives on connecting with others. This contradiction has carried over into my writing career, as I struggle with the conflicts between needing to connect and wanting to protect. Lately the pull from each end has never felt greater.

So today, in honor of this blog’s birth and in the spirit of reaching out, I want to peel away one layer and tell you something important.

I am losing someone I love. Not just someone, but my Mom.  And even though I have been losing pieces of her for many years, it doesn’t diminish the pain that is now devouring me, eating me alive from the inside out.

And there is nothing and everything to say about it.

This week I read a wise and beautiful piece about grief and how it is work done alone. I am grateful to this stranger for putting to words the power and pain of this experience. And I’m grateful that my own tribe is waiting nearby with ropes to toss down when I’m ready to climb out of my hole toward sunlight.

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  1. It was nearly thirty years ago when after weeks and weeks of testing the doctor told us your Mom had MS. She asked what the future held and he told her in ever so grim of terms. Her comment, “I can live with that.”
    …..and she has with grace and dignity and a role model for every one. Never once has she ever asked, “Why me?”
    Her love for simple treasures always present….the sound of robins in the spring rustling in the leaves behind the house…the smell of wild plum blossoms….the smell of salt air….the treasure of an olive….sand between your toes….listening to your granddaughter or grandson reading their favorite book to you.
    Everyone needs a role model like your Mom…..the great difficulty for us is that she has set the standard too high……Pop

  2. You are so good at communicating your feelings even when you are in pain…..May God wrap you in His Love and flood you with peace & mountains of sweet memories. We are never ready to loose our moms.

  3. A beautiful post and an equally beautiful response from your dad.

    I am here to toss down a rope when you are ready.

    Much love – hok

  4. It is a struggle, when you have a world built on communication.

    It is your world, and you are rewarded so much for your participation in it, which makes it all the harder to not say everything.

    It is very hard.

    I am sorry for all this. I know words will help you again, as they always have.

    I hope it feels a bit more peaceful typing out what you have here.

    And you do have wonderful friends.

    • You are so right…and I love how you say we are “rewarded” for participating in our lives.

      And yes, I do feel better and more peaceful after writing the post. Words really are salvation. Thank you for yours.

  5. So “happy blogoversary” just isn’t terribly appropriate right now is it?
    I’m so sorry, I am sending you love and strength to get through it all.

  6. “Anything I share will be both too much and not enough.”

    “And there is nothing and everything to say about it.”

    To me, those simple sentences describe perfectly the complexity of the pain inside and the conflict of wanting to share or not. I remember.

    Like HOK, I am ready when you need me.

  7. I don’t know if cried more after your post or your Pop’s response. When for those of us who love words there are no words, a quiet hug speaks volumes. I send you one of those.
    Peace•Love•Guacamole — and Love.

  8. Tight warm virtual hugs to you, friend. Being a mom and losing a mom is so profound. Oh, more hugs. And lots of rope.

  9. I have read & reread your article and, as always, am so proud of your beautiful prose. I have pondered just WHAT could I say to comfort you.

    Sure, I know what it’s like to hold things close to protect my heart. I also know what it’s like to want to talk, not want to talk and then try to talk and not have the words to express what’s in my heart. I know that you will want to be surrounded by friends and family and, at the same time, not want anyone there at all. But, I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. My heart is so very sad for all of you.

    I am here, everyday, for whatever you need and whenever you need it.


  10. Liz – What a beautiful post. Even though I have been through it, I still don’t always know what to say.

    I think of you and your mom often. I keep the picture of her in my mind.

    Take care,

  11. Lots and lots of love and peace and happiness coming your way from Tahoe. Thinking of you and your mom and all the love that binds you. The sun will keep shining. And when it takes a break now and then, there’s still the moon and stars. Hugs.

  12. I love you,I treasure you, and I hurt for you. Wish I could help scoop up the pain, just enough so that it wasn’t so engulfing. I’m always honored when you let me try.

  13. Liz: You truly made me weep. You have such a beautiful gift, I’m honored that you share it with all of us. I’ve thought of you and your family often over the years. I’m so sorry-

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