This
Seeming
Chaos

The 1st.

I published that essay today, on systems of practice. I wrote so much, and this is only a tiny piece of the whole. Maybe I should have saved it for a book. Or maybe it will become part of my book. Not sure.

The 10th.

My brother died. It feels shocking writing that, like maybe it's not true. But it is.

It’s been a week now, and I feel as if I’ve processed the most raging part of my grief. But our hearts are such strangers—grief has taught me that much. We do not know ourselves. We only tell ourselves pretty stories.

It’s so strange seeing my writing up until last Friday. I had no idea what was about to happen. None at all. That’s always the way it is, I guess.

I do feel like something in me has changed forever. I still can’t imagine going back to work in the old way. It feels like so much performance and falsehood. Maybe I’m being too serious. But I can’t do it. I just want a quieter life, absent of any polish or shine. I want persuasion and striving to belong to someone else. I only want to learn, and be humble, and write, and help where I can. I want to trust that that’s enough, and all else will be provided.

We flew across the country as soon as we could to be with my mom. My dad is in Africa and he can't get back. There could not be a worse time to be on another continent.

The hours pass so calmly here at my mom’s house. I don’t know what to do exactly, but it doesn’t seem consequential that I should know. I don’t have that same old anxious feeling that I must use each hour to the utmost. I’ve been reading Adam Bede and talking to my mom and to Adam and making food whenever I’m hungry. My projects include talking to my kids and taking a walk and thinking about something I might like to cook at some point. We’ve done a few things, like connect with the funeral director and get our COVID immunizations and charge the car, but that’s about it.

I’ve thought a little about starting my morning routine again, but not seriously. I don’t know where I would do yoga (and our walks provide sufficient exercise). I do not have anything to write to a public reader, only grief and the sweetness of family and how none of our striving really matters at all. I do not need to share updates with my team, or with anyone. There’s little point in it.

I’ve been in a fog of emotion, but I do feel myself slowly awakening again to the wider world. I don’t know what that will mean, but it could mean telling my friends how much I love them. I don’t really want to make plans though. I will know what I’m ready for when I’m ready for it.

It feels good to write, if a bit silly. I know my writing gets so old-fashioned when I’m reading the classics. It makes me laugh at myself. I’m really loving reading George Eliot though and learning about who she was and the life she lived. She was the same age as I am when she wrote her first novel. I wonder what made her do it? Sometimes I think that’s what I should do, but I’m scared to pursue fiction. I don’t know if I have anything like a good story in me, with interesting characters, that tells the truth better than any lecture or essay can. But I might. Too bad I left the notebook with the beginning of my novel in it at home.

If I live that different kind of life that I’m longing to live, I can see so much room for a novel in it. I could maybe think more about what I would want that novel to be while I’m here.

Surrender feels like the appropriate descriptor for where I’m at. I am ready to just be here and not have to make it into anything better.

The 11th.

I’m finding while I’m not “motivated” to do anything or to use my time in any particular way, the habits I’d been cultivating are still so sweet to me. If I do pick them up again in a systematic way, it will only be to protect that time from the needs of the day, rather than to encourage any particular habit. I feel deeply that those things are good for me, and I want to do them.

I just finished reading Adam Bede. It is so, so wonderful. I enjoyed it even more than Silas Marner. I kind of like reading an author chronologically, I think, even though I didn’t do that this time. Adam Bede is George Eliot’s first novel, and it’s interesting to see how she progresses with The Mill on the Floss.

I feel so strange about our company right now. We are certainly on the brink of a transition, and I can see now that my heart has been preparing for it. I feel very open to what’s next. But I’m also losing the clarity and strength of my vision, and I feel the loss. Now is a time for patience and receptivity and sensing what my heart is telling me. I’m excited and unsettled at the same time. It’s a good thing, and I’m determined to enjoy all of it and do whatever I can to shake my fear.

The 12th.

Today feels strange to me. Like I should be working, but also that there’s no work that truly needs doing. I’m just going to allow myself to be still and listen and see what comes up for me.

I just want to write without a purpose. Morning pages so quickly turn into “figure out what to do” pages. I want to return them to their original purpose, as a place to let my heart be free and see what it discovers.

Julia Cameron says to let the hand write freely, without thinking. And if you don’t know what to write, write that, over and over and over, until something else comes up. I’ve done this before and have found some solace in the routine—I certainly have no resistance to free-writing anymore. But I do use it as more of a work horse for figuring out whatever’s on my mind, rather than as a meditation or a place to let myself be, and be honest.

Honesty is hard for me in these pages, mostly because I’m so embarrassed by my feelings. Especially when I read them later. But right now I feel like clinging to my notebook. Possibly to help with the grief, so I can have a listening ear. But also to make space for me to listen to my own heart. I feel like this is the right approach for me to make decisions right now. Not to lay out all my plans and habits for self-improvement, but to be led by my heart, trusting in my inner guidance and prompting.

“How do people live?” This is one answer to that question. Letting each day unfold, enjoying how each moment is both new and unique and also dying away. Death really does have so much to teach me about how to live.

Grieving has been such an interesting process. It’s so healing, letting go. It hurts. So bad. But it leads you to a place of acceptance and even relish for what you do have.

I almost wish I could grieve everything before I lost it. Then I would both appreciate it deeply and not be afraid of losing things all the time. I cannot hold onto the things I love, the things that make me feel safe. The push-pull of clinging to these things and resisting their loss puts me in a tension and not really appreciating anything much at all. It is a different kind of pain than grief, but it is a constant one (and a futile one), rather than a working out of what has actually been lost. What if I could let go of that tension, and instead welcome grief in readiness, knowing its mysterious healing powers and its rich soil for new growth? I will not grieve everything ahead of its time—I don’t have the time or creativity for that—but I can set aside the clinging and avoidance, saving that energy for embracing grief when it comes, like a gift that comes at the dearest price. A price I would never choose to pay, but once paid, brings its own kind of recompense.

The 13th.

I may have something new to grieve. There is an opportunity for our company to be acquired. Adam and I talked a little about this potential transition and my role in it at breakfast this morning.

I think I’m ready to consider what that could look like. Or at least, I do need to consider it, or else it will be considered for me. At the same time, there are so many unknowns that it doesn’t make sense to rush into any kind of proposal.

It’s Tuesday already. We’ve been here for a week and a day. I feel so different than when I first came. I feel revived and refreshed. I am no longer overcome by my grief. I wonder if by the time of the funeral, I’ll have no tears left. That’s probably not likely, but it feels that way sometimes.

The 14th.

I don’t want to write today. One of our long-time teammates is taking another position, and I’m feeling so many feelings, I don’t even know what they are. And I doubt writing will get to the heart of it. I really just want to be alone and cry, but there’s nowhere to be alone.

I really am so exhausted. I also feel fidgety, maybe from the extra caffeine I had this morning. I feel a heaviness, too, and a resistance to this day; maybe even a dread. Part of it is knowing that our teammate will be announcing that they’re leaving soon, and I need to be ready to join a team call whenever that happens. I keep checking Slack to see if they’ve done it yet.

Everything feels so unstable in my world right now. Part of it is exciting, but there’s a huge part that’s terrifying. I think above all, I’m afraid I no longer have the will to advocate for my own vision (or even to really know what it is). I’m afraid I’m going to throw my hands up out of exhaustion and defeat, and still be in charge of this great beast of a donkey, only now it’s not a donkey I chose, it’s someone else’s.

In any case, I do not want to take on the role as CEO at this new company whose customer and needs I know little about. Of course I could learn, but in reality, I will defer to the people who do know the most, so what’s the point of me leading it? I see little value in me being a female figurehead. Not that that’s what they’re wanting me to be, but that seems like the only value. And I get why it could be good for the company in that light, but would it be good for me? I do not believe I could hold that vision for the team with integrity.

The 16th.

We’re going home! For a little while at least, until we can get the funeral scheduled, which will be at least two more weeks.

I’m so relieved. It’s been nice having nothing going on here and just relaxing and being with my mom, but I miss my kids so much. I’m ready to move on from this phase.

We’re traveling to Knoxville today at some point. That will be interesting. We’ll be meeting with Adam’s colleague to talk about a possible acqui-hire or long-term contract, which seems less likely to happen than it did a few days ago.

Our biggest client wants to spend a pretty big budget for Q2, so there’s no urgency on my part. I don’t think it changes the fact that we need to try something new, if for no reason than I just don’t have the heart for this vision anymore. But it does allow us to move deliberately. I do want to think about what I want for myself and for the team.

The 19th.

I’m so excited to be back home, in my own bed and at my own desk. So much change is happening right now. I don’t know what next month is going to look like, or next week, or even the next hour. I feel hopeful and open. Nothing needs to happen in a certain way. All I know is how I want to be in the world. That is really all that matters to me right now.

I’m so glad my mom is here. It’s wonderful to be around her. She brings such gentleness and acceptance and is always willing to listen. I love her so much, and I’m so happy we get to spend this time together.

George Eliot started writing novels when she was 38, which is how old I am now—isn’t that amazing? I’ve thought maybe that’s what I will do next, but then I get scared and change my mind. I don’t know. Ambition is so silly. There has to be a better reason for doing things than wanting to be a certain kind of person or to be well-known or to leave something behind when I’m gone. All of those reasons feel so empty. Pleasure can also be empty, and not always attainable. Contribution is rich, but art is so intangible. It can be truly powerful on a soul level, but only if it’s very good and true. To believe that my own art may be that for someone feels…well, hard to believe. And it puts a lot of pressure on it.

Adam talked to the team about the (now highly probable) potential of an acqui-hire today. It feels like a relief to make a clear division between what I am responsible for and what the other partners are taking the helm on.

The 20th.

I am 38 1/2 years old today. I always remember my half-birthday because it was my childhood best friend’s birthday. And then my birthday was her half-birthday. Or I guess it still is, though we never kept in touch.

It’s weird how the days are rushing by so fast, especially when I’m not doing much to hold onto the reins. I’ve taken a back seat at work, letting this possible acqui-hire unfold, letting the other partners handle this phase. There is not much value in me doing a whole lot right now or forcing anything.

What do I want after all of this? Not a lot honestly. I want to write. I want to know my contribution has value. I don’t want to sell things, at least not as the main priority. I want to tell the truth. I want to follow my enthusiasm. I want to learn and grow. I want deep relationships and meaningful interactions. I don’t want a lot of stuff on my calendar.

The 21st.

I spend a lot of time driving people back and forth these days. It used to bother me. But now…who cares? “Being productive” has stopped having a lot of meaning for me. What’s it all for? At least driving people places gives me the chance to be with them.

I wrote about my brother today. I will add it here for posterity:

My brother died two weeks ago. I keep looking at that sentence, thinking, “That’s a shocking thing to say; it feels sensationalist. Do I want to be sensationalist?” But it’s just true.

He didn’t die of what I thought he would die of—he had Type 1 diabetes that was hard to keep under control. Throughout my life I’ve often imagined his funeral to prepare myself, just in case. I especially imagined the photo reel of his life being shot onto one of those church projector screens with the nostalgic music playing and everyone crying. I knew him best when he was a sweet-cheeked little kid who never knew a stranger and often had his hands in peanut butter jars, so I picture that. I also picture me trying to keep his grubby three-year-old hands away from my brand new talking Mickey Mouse with those white, white gloves.

But diabetes didn’t end up being the culprit. Instead, he died of a brain aneurysm that no one could see, prepare for, or expect. He was 36 years old, two years younger than me, the same age my mother’s mother died when my mom was just a child. She died of Type 1 diabetes, so my brother was relieved and proud of himself for making it that far.

Grief is piercing and strange. I’ve experienced it in small ways, like most of us have, but never this kind. My brother and I weren’t close as adults—too much baggage from growing up. I don’t know if grief takes that into account when you lose someone in your family. Maybe it doesn’t, or maybe it makes it worse. I don’t have much to compare it to.

When I heard he wasn’t going to come out of the searing-headache-turned-seizure-turned-coma, I gasped and wailed and heaved like I’d lost my firstborn. After several days of on-and-off crying jags, followed by stretches of benumbed staring at the ceiling, I was able to fly back to Virginia to be with my mom. It has been so, so healing to grieve together. Having lost her mom at such a young age and having experienced many losses since, she is the wisest griever I know.

“You have to let it out,” she says. “Don’t hold anything in, not a thing. Feel all of it.” She tells me stories about him all day, about how he loved Iron Man and telling jokes and how he wanted to work with dialysis patients once he got his hoped-for kidney. He rarely left a place without telling everyone there that he loved them because he didn’t take his life for granted. I tell her about how we used to pretend our beanbag chairs were giant mustard and ketchup bottles that we’d drive around the living room. I tell her how we danced to the lime in the coconut song, how I remember him bare-skinned except for his diaper and cowboy hat, sugar free pudding smeared all over his face.

When I went to see him in the hospital one last time, she told me I could hold his hand, and she warned me against trying to keep my crying under control. “Let it out. Let it out. Let it out.” My husband encouraged me to talk to him, even if he didn’t have any brain activity left. “You can tell him anything, Sarah.” And when I couldn’t say anything except “I love you” over and over, he held my hand and prayed the rest.

It must be so hard to process grief alone. My dad went to Africa, and he hasn’t been able to get back yet because of lockdown. It’s very hard for him, being there alone, waiting to get the go-ahead to come home. I think of all the people who have lost loved ones to COVID and not-COVID this past year, and who have had to experience solitary grief. I don’t think we were designed for it. I wonder at how much is left unprocessed until we can share it with another, and it makes me want to fix that for the whole world.

But when we can process our grief, fully and collectively, it can be beautifully healing. It’s like our bodies know how to heal themselves, not just in knitting together broken bones, but also broken hearts. I wouldn’t have believed that in the beginning. But after spending this time with my mother, and watching the way she grieves, so fully and even joyfully, I’m starting to believe it now.

Which makes me wonder at all the things I do to avoid loss, to avoid grief. I worry what will happen if I fail at my job, what will happen if my partner and I grow apart, what will happen if I haven’t prepared my kids well enough for the world they find themselves in. I worry about people on the Internet and living up to my potential and whether I’ve been too ambitious in my grocery shopping and maybe things are starting to rot in the fridge. I build all kinds of little hedges around myself to protect me from anything I’m afraid of losing.

Fear is a lot of work. So is grief, but at least there is healing on the other side.

Grief is still surprising to me. Even now as I’m writing this, I’m thinking, “I’m okay now. I’m definitely okay.” I mean, I’m writing something I might even share, which I couldn’t have imagined a week ago. Tomorrow I might be sobbing again and thinking how am I going to do anything except for hug my family ever again. As much as I used to think I knew myself, grief has taught me this isn’t completely true. Our hearts are such strangers when something we love is taken away. We never know where the unalterable truth will hit us.

It might sound morbid, not to mention impossible and inadvisable, but I’ve been tempted to think it would be better to grieve everything in my life now, before it’s gone. I could grieve my relationships, my job, my identity even. I could let this go and that go…let everything go. Let the loss of it completely overtake me, hopefully without breaking me. And then when I’m done, let myself experience everything, not as if it were mine to hold onto, but as if it were a gift. I could walk back into the world as if I’d just been born, and owned nothing. Then maybe I could learn to appreciate all of it while it’s here.

But of course that’s not how it works. We can’t grieve things that aren’t gone. Fear of loss is its own thing; we don’t get to choose to preemptively grieve instead. And hope, as beautiful as it is, interrupts any grieving that might aid us in our healing. There is a push/pull to it that keeps us hanging on. Perhaps this is why, as Breai Mason-Campbell writes, “Situational grief is momentary. Systemic grief is not.” We can’t grieve what isn’t gone, or what keeps getting taken away.

The best I can do in this moment is to remember the temporary nature of all things, and to use that to appreciate that we get to be here, together, right now. Grief and gratitude strike me as the closest of siblings.

Goodbye, little brother. I miss you so much.

The 22nd.

I’m meeting about this potential acqui-hire today. As CEO, I’m ultimately the one negotiating on behalf of our team. I don’t know what to expect with that conversation. I’m going to do my best to be grounded. Of course I want to create new possibility for us as a team, but I only want it if it’s good for me and for everyone.

Other than that, I have such a long list of things I could be spending time on. I feel no desire to plow through it, to be productive, or even to optimize my own pleasure and enjoyment. Maybe it’s my brother dying, maybe it’s all I’ve been reading about capitalism and colonialization, probably it’s a combination. Whatever the case, I am suddenly supremely comfortable with “being” instead of “doing.” I don’t feel like I need to accomplish anything or position myself in any sort of way in order to reach some sort of potential. I’m clear on what my work is to do, and I’m content with doing it. I don’t need it to achieve anything for me. I don’t need recognition or pats on the back or visibility. Those things mean so little to me now, at least at a conscious level.

Maybe that’s what grieving does. And I am grieving both my brother and my vision and my role as CEO. I am not trying to hold onto any of those those things anymore. I’m sure there is still plenty more grieving to do, but where I’m at now is different than any place I’ve ever been. I have wrestled with my identity and my sense of purpose and my ambition and my burnout for years. Almost a decade. 7 or 8 years at least. It took me 7 or 8 years to run myself into the ground and 7 or 8 years to heal.

The 23rd.

I feel unsettled today. I’ve made the decision to start talking to the team about this acqui-hire as a real thing we need to be preparing for, but I don’t want another exhausting day of communication.

The 28th.

I feel good this morning, but I’m mentally so tired from all this conversation around this potential acqui-hire. And also everything else that has happened in my life. It feels so tangled and messy. I wish for clarity, above all.

I have a sales conversation this afternoon, which I’m really not looking forward to. It’s hard when we’re in the middle of a big transition to act as if nothing’s going on. But I’m going to approach it with curiosity and interest in what makes this founder excited to get up in the morning. And then see what we can do to help.

The 29th.

I’m so tired. Like…just exhausted. I want to do things that are nourishing to me, but nothing is coming to me. I could just sleep all the time, but technically I’m getting enough sleep. I’m getting enough exercise. I’m eating pretty well. But I’m still totally done with everything.

I know it makes sense. I lost my brother. I’m letting go of the vision I’ve had at our company and the role I’ve played in leading it. I’m trying to navigate our next steps and include people in the process. I’m parenting 5 kids, including several teenagers. We’re still dealing with COVID and it’s indignities. All of 2020 was terrible. Several core teammates have moved on to other positions. And this new possibility for our company.

I’m glad I at least know what I don’t want. I don’t want to be the CEO of this next organization. I don’t want to be the CEO of this one anymore either.

The 30th.

Our teammate’s last day is today. As hard as this acqui-hire decision has been, I know I’m doing the right thing. We’ve already lost two teamies this year, and I know another one is on the cusp. We’ve held onto this vision for so long. We’re surviving, but we’re not doing what we’ve really wanted to do. It’s time for a change. We can’t keep compromising like this. I know it might feel like stability, but stability at the cost of vision and growth eventually catches up with you.