I’m Not Okay

Knowing that my friends are going through the same things means I always have someone to talk with about it, someone who knows exactly how I’m feeling.

On a Tuesday evening last September, I was at my 10-year-old son’s Boy Scout meeting. The other moms and I were commiserating that our boys were now in fifth grade – their last year of elementary school. “How are our boys this old already?” One mom said.

“How did the time go by so fast?” Another asked.

Their sons are my son’s best friends. Our sons have gone to the same school since first grade and they were involved in all the same activities. We’d spent a lot of time together over the last five years, and these moms had become my friends too. But as I listened to them talk, I found myself envying the ones who still had younger children. Nathan was my youngest. Next year, I wouldn’t have any kids still in elementary school.

“I hope this school year goes by so slowly,” I said. “I don’t want May to get here at all. Because not only do I have Nathan leaving elementary school, it’s my daughter’s last year of high school.”

A mom friend patted my shoulder. “I know it’s so hard.”

I could feel the lump in my throat. “When you see me in May, just give me a hug. Because no matter how I seem on the outside, I will not be okay on the inside.”

My friend nodded and gave me a pre-emptive hug.

When I spoke those words so many months ago, I had no idea how things would turn out. For this entire school year, I dreaded the end of it. I wanted to keep my kids as little as I could for as long as I could. Even thinking about watching end-of-the-year award ceremonies nearly brought me to tears.

And now, everything is different.

At Nathan’s elementary school, the fifth graders take a special field trip to St. Louis every year. They go to the zoo, the children’s museum, and the famous arch. Nathan was so looking forward to it.

The fifth graders have their own graduation ceremony and huge end-of-the-year party. To a bunch of 11-year-olds, it’s a really big deal.

And like all other fifth graders across this nation, my son has missed his last months of elementary school. The events that I spent months dreading, I now would give anything to see.

And it’s even worse for my daughter, Julia. There’s a prom dress hanging in her closet that she’ll never be able to wear. She missed the last few months of high school with her friends. A competition that she’d worked all school year to prepare for was canceled. She celebrated her 18th birthday in quarantine. And as I write this, her school is still deciding what to do about her graduation ceremony.

When I said last fall that I wouldn’t be okay in May and June, I never dreamed that I wouldn’t chaperone Nathan’s field trip or watch Julia receive her diploma. I thought it would be hard to do those things, but I would do them.

But now, I’ve realized that it’s so much harder not to do them.

Now I know that our family’s story is far from unique. Millions of high school seniors are missing all of the same things that my Julia is missing and millions of fifth graders are missing their special events to celebrate the end of their time in elementary school.

Our struggles are not unusual. In fact, we’ve lost far less than many other people. Often times, comparing our pain to the pain of others is not healthy. It makes us feel that we don’t have the right to grieve our own losses because others have it worse than we do. It invalidates our feelings. It can even make us feel selfish or petty for feeling the way we do.

But somehow, in this case, knowing that millions of other families are experiencing the same struggles makes the losses so much easier to bear.
Because in them, we find community.

The teachers at my son’s school made a video for the students. Each teacher used a different adjective to describe the kids. Brave, strong, diligent, unstoppable. Watching it brought tears to my eyes. The teachers drove through our neighborhoods in a wonderful end-of-the-year parade.

Someone started a program to “adopt” our graduates and acknowledge their accomplishments, even if we can’t meet in person to celebrate.

Again, these things aren’t unique. Communities all around the country are finding creative ways to make their students feel appreciated.

Knowing that my friends are going through the same things means I always have someone to talk with about it, someone who knows exactly how I’m feeling.

For months, I thought I’d be heartbroken to watch my kids grow up and take their next steps in life. I thought I’d grieve the passage of time and wish for it to slow down.

I still wish for that. And I know that my kids will take their next steps in life regardless of the quarantine. Nathan missed his fifth grade graduation ceremony, but my son will still be in sixth grade next year. And even if Julia doesn’t walk across a stage to receive her high school diploma, she will still be starting college in the fall.

I can’t stop time. I can’t even make it slow down. My kids will grow up, no matter what I do.

I said last fall that I wouldn’t be okay at the end of the school year.

And I’m not. I’m not okay. But neither is anyone else I know.

And as strange as it sounds, being not okay together somehow makes it okay.

I love my community and I’m blessed to live where I do. Realizing that has been one of the bright spots of the last few months. It’s going to take some time, but together, we’re going to be better than okay. We’re going to be just fine.