Some letters

I have some letters and emails I need to write.

Figuring out and managing relationships right now seems so insurmountable, so unbelievably complicated to figure out. Yet I know how much people care and love us, and I want to be caring and loving back. I just sometimes think all of it is used up. But it isn't. There is always room in your heart to look around. There is always room for more love.

I try to speak to myself if I were my child, or my best friend.

Just be true, Angie. Follow your instincts. Stay quiet when you must. Talk when you must. And in between smile. Live this new life with intention. With honesty. Be the kind of woman your daughters admire. Live a life that is full and unashamed.

I received an email that dared to say something awkward. But in it the message remained, I miss you. I think about you. I want to be your friend. And the second letter I received is one of those letters that babylost mamas never expect to receive. A courageous letter. An I-messed-up-and-I'm-sorry letter. The condolences six months late. I was deeply moved. I cried. I felt such a deep sense of sorrow, and thankfulness, and love. Someone realized the path of saying nothing wasn't the path I needed, and bravely apologized. Holy shit.

And this is it, right? People think that they could never make this less awkward. That it is too hard to say something. So they just don't bother. They take the path of losing our friendship rather than risk admitting they don't know what to do. But it is so wrong. I don't do everything right. I say stupid things. I say the wrong things, probably in the comment section of some of your blogs even. I can only hope that I confront it, apologize, and do what I can to make it right.

But being on the receiving end of this letter made me think, who am I? Who do I want to be? Someone for whom nothing is ever right? Am I really a grudge holder? Do I want to be bitter and angry? No. That is the not the person I want to be. (See above.) I felt love. Forgiveness, in some weird way, because until this letter, I wasn't mad at one person. I wasn't even specifically mad at the letter writer. I was mad at the whole lot. The whole group of cowards who decided not to say anything. I was mad because my daughter died and people went on with their lives. Mad because people who said nothing acted like it wasn't a big deal that my daughter died. And it is a big fucking deal.

And now, I have to be brave, because it will be awkward to write to both of these people. It will be awkward to talk about my feelings. It will be awkward the first time we see each other again, because we can't exactly pretend that nothing happened. It will be awkward to say thank you for changing who I am a little, for making me a better person. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to pick a path of love instead of bitterness, forgiveness instead of anger. And not just thank you from me, but thank you from all those jerks who couldn't be brave. Because of you, I can forgive them too.

:::

I have been avoiding thinking about Summer Solstice. Part of me wishes I could stay up all night, and dance in the moonlight with my daughters and my beautiful husband with a bonfire and celebrate Lucia's short powerful life. I wish I could dig deep and find the joy of Lucy's life instead of this intense sadness I have. And maybe, somehow, I will figure out how to do that. How do you change the sadness into joyfulness? Can they both exist?