But… are they? 😮‍💨

I’ve hit another one of those walls where I have a lot to write about, but so much that my brain can’t decide what to focus on.

Truth is, in this family, we are ALL literally crawling to the end of the school year. Yep, our last day is June 18.

This school year has been really rough on our 17-year-old boy, a junior in high school who attends a specialized Performing Arts program. In school from 8:30am to 5pm, not including afterschool rehearsals, he has been very close to dropping out at least three times this year. He doesn’t really want to, but life gets too heavy and too dark sometimes.

I understand.

And my heart breaks for him over and over again.

Taking about twelve classes between academics and theater, plus carrying the heavy weight of grief, has proven to be too much for him this year. He has a 504 Plan, letters from therapists, and I’ve met with his school counselor and almost every teacher, every single year, to explain why he needs accommodations. But somewhere along the way, his needs get lost, his trauma unseen and his grief forgotten.

It was his school-based social worker, who has been supporting him since his dad fell into a coma and died during his freshman year, who asked him back in February if he could give school one more chance. Together we came up with a plan: just get him to pass and finish.

I am so incredibly grateful for him.

So here we are, with about five days left of school, and he’s still in the game. He’s missed a lot of days, assignments, and opportunities. And every so often the “what ifs” hit me. What would his life look like if his dad and best friend hadn’t died when he was fifteen? My brain tells me he would probably be thriving, overachieving, signing up for every after-school activity, every summer program, every opportunity that crossed his path.

Instead, he’s decided he doesn’t want to go to college, at least not right away. He has other plans: rest and reset, work to make money, produce music, and hone his acting craft.

Maybe those are exactly the plans he needs. But still… What would his life be if Dad were still here? Here we go with the “surrendering to what we can’t control…”

Everything is tinged by loss 💔

This year our daughter is doing great.

Last year was brutal.

The anxiety and panic attacks. The shattered confidence of a middle school girl with a broken heart. The lack of emotional intelligence from some adults and kids in her life whose words wounded her already deeply wounded soul and pushed her into isolation at such a vulnerable time.

She also has a 504 Plan, letters from grief therapists, and my countless meetings with school counselors and teachers every year to explain why she needs accommodations. Yet somehow, her needs also got lost, unseen and forgotten.

Advocating for our kids and educating the adults in their lives about grief and loss became one of my full-time jobs.

It depleted me. It has been beyond exhausting.

At the end of last school year, I met with the mental health team at her school and finally said, “I’m raising the white flag, I’m done. I have done everything in my power to get her to school, but she doesn’t want to come anymore. Now it’s on you.” And that meeting finally yielded a plan that worked.

A school-based therapist. Additional support and tutoring. Extended time to turn in assignments. And with a wonderful group of friends, a dance class that she loves and the pre-competitive gymnastics team she wanted to be in for so long became the miracle and the blessing I had been praying for.

And my heart breaks for her, too, over and over again. For her future that will never be. For the dreams we had for her as her parents.

Looking for Gratitude 🙏🏽

If I’m looking for gratitude, here’s what I find:

Our girl is doing great this year. Our son is going to finish junior year and is on track to graduate next year. And somehow, mercifully, they took turns having shitty school years. Now, when is my turn to have a crisis?

I honestly don’t know where I’d be if both of them had fallen apart at the same time. Two and a half years later, our lives are still far from thriving.That still feels like one of those destinations I can see on the map but can’t quite imagine arriving at.

But we keep moving. The lows aren’t quite as low. The darkness doesn’t stay as long.

We keep taking one small, slow, stubborn, determined step after another. We keep chasing joy. We keep riding the waves. We’re learning to stop fighting the storm so we can save our energy for the things we can actually control.

I read your stories. I listen to adults who lost a parent when they were young. I research grief, resilience, trauma, and healing.

And every story of a grown-up who built a beautiful life after unimaginable loss restores a little bit of my faith.

Will the kids be alright? Will our kids be alright? Are your kids alright?

I hope so. I pray so. And until we know the answer, we’ll keep showing up, advocating, loving them fiercely, and believing that healing doesn’t always look like thriving.

Sometimes it looks like finishing junior year. Sometimes it looks like going to dance practice or getting out of bed. Sometimes it looks like one exhausted widowed mom filling out another 504 accommodation form for the hundredth time and refusing to give up.

Maybe that’s what being alright looks like, for now.

❤️‍🩹

 

 

Hasta la próxima! Until next weekPeace.