remothering

and other thoughts on resilience, loneliness and the truth of it all

I was in my late 20s when my Mom Ellen died.

There is a resilience that came from this profound loss. At this profound age. So much left to know and learn from her.

I knew the many ways in which I was going to have to carry on without out her would require masses of grit, superhuman strength, immense independence (and many sides of tears and well-done fries). Lucky me to have had the kind of close relationship with a Mom that many only dream about. If she was proud of me, I knew I had knocked it out of the park. She was a glorious measure of hitting high notes you did not even know you had the capacity to sing. (I don’t sing or play any sport ball, but you know what I mean).

She too was strong and taught my sister Danna and I her ways. She got divorced before we knew anyone who did and remained friends with my Dad (and worked with my stepmother!). You know Gwyneth, I think she invented “conscious uncoupling” and joined forces with her bff to craft real estate broker “job share”, for her single mom life. The newspaper dubbed them The Dynamic Duo — but that is for another day.

In moving back East recently, I thought I had returned. Back to my roots and the place I have called the home of my heart for so long. In doing so, I thought I would ditch the loneliness that thirty years of resiliency brought on. You see, when you learn to do all things without a Mom, it is rare that you allow for the female friendships and “remothering” that are so needed and necessary along the way. I had my sister, and boy oh boy if you knew her, you too would think that was all you’d need. She knew and knows the shorthand of me. Danna is more big sister than little on most occasions and has resolved countless Barri-sized mountainous meltdowns along the way.

I bravely shared this notion with a friend, just last month, who had also lost her Mom. We bonded over the idea of having tricky female friendships because they somehow, even subconsciously, felt like a betrayal of the mother bond we’d lost. If I let others mother me, I would be forgetting her brightest, biggest and best and one-of-its-kind mothering.

In glimmers, I saw how good this kind of mothering could feel. A beloved yoga teacher made me feel this way. A brilliant art director. An old neighbor who had a baby six months before me. I was part of a women’s group in the year or so before I left Chicago and asked some very personal and vulnerable questions and advice from them. In the past, I always felt foolish, babyish or needy when I walked away from a conversation or interaction that allowed for that glorious wash of mothering to come upon me, but then got all covered up in shame and angst soon after.

I have received several subsequent phone calls from the sweet woman I shared this idea with — she said it was transformational. It is and has been for me too. I told her that folks had assumed most of my life that I was surrounded by a gaggle of gals who supported me, invites and inclusion here and there, a busy and full datebook of comings and goings with the ladies. Nope. Never. This is not to say that I am friendless, but I looked to most like I had all I needed. Some have even told me so when I professed years spent feeling lonely in Chicago.

I guess this is all to say, that at any and every age - with or without our own mothers, we need mothering. A safe space to ask the burning questions. From men to menopause, I have had my fair share of just “what the f&ck” is happening here. I was also an editor for many years, and invited to the opening of most every envelope in Chicago. That was fun, and busy and glammy, but that was work.

And look, I don’t want to GO to everything, but I do want to be invited. I do long for the kind of female friendships that give me that yummy “mothered” feeling. I know it is not a betrayal to Ellen. I know it does not mean I am not resilient or independent. It means I am a woman, who needs other women. Sistering. Nurturing. Sharing. Belonging.

I have stepped out in my new town. Out of my comfort zone and unto the wild unknown. Even at 57, I know it is never too late. I am allowing, asking, inviting in this feeling again. Carefully and cautiously —with the kind of brave knowing that time, healing and age have so generouly offered up.