Maybe One Day

by Debbie Johnson

I’m struck again by the confines of my mother’s life, the controlled environment in which she failed to thrive. A stage lit entirely in shades of beige. I wish there’d been more joy, more abandon, more rule-breaking.

These are not people who are flexible in their worldview. They’re not evil—they’re just so rigid it’s as though rigor mortis has set in while they’re technically still alive.

I told him once that I was jealous of that—that confidence and self-belief. He just looked a bit sad, and said he wished he hadn’t had to learn it so young, and that anyway, I was getting things wrong. That being really brave wasn’t about being fearless, it was about refusing to let the fear rule the way you lived.

There’s loss all around us—you just have to try not to let it overwhelm your whole life.”

When you’ve been through a trauma, your brain finds sneaky ways to remind you of it. Probably it thinks it’s protecting you, keeping you alert to potential threats. The most everyday of sounds or smells or sensations can trick your nervous system into thinking there is still danger lurking nearby. It’s exhausting—a constant battle to balance the reality you see and the reality your mind is warning you about. Cold sweats, adrenaline rushes, clenched muscles—all of it telling you to be careful.

You didn’t get from being a frightened girl to being a momma bear by accident, Jess. You got there with hard work, and patience, and determination. You kept at it—you never gave up, never gave in. Don’t forget what you’re capable of.

It’s part of life, and not one to be sad about—the trick is feeling happy because you knew them at all, that your life was blessed with their presence, rather than mourning the fact that they’re gone. Although, of course, that’s harder with some losses than others, I know.”

The thing about truth is that once you have it, you often don’t want it.