Small Strokes Big Oaks

Dear Students,

When you came into class sad about your games, trips, matches, activities being cancelled, I could relate. And I did. I told you that, my senior year, 9/11 happened, and it forever changed the way the world functioned. We had to cancel our senior year band trip to Arizona because we couldn’t drive there and no parent wanted their kids to fly. Most of you nodded. Some said, “oh,” as if you were realizing for the first time that you weren’t the only ones to have had your senior year plans altered because of a major world event. Some said, “oh,” as if you could sympathize with me, because now you can.

My lesson for you in that story was that it seemed like such a big deal at the time, and it seemed like I would never stop thinking about 9/11 and all the things it changed and took away. But, and I spoke honestly when I said this, I don’t think about it all that often. I had actually forgotten about that band trip until yours was also cancelled this year. There have just been so many other important things since then that it rarely crosses my mind.

But, at the time, COVID-19 felt as far away as the New York skyline felt to a midwestern teenager who had never been to the East coast, which is to say very far away. And, though my life was certainly affected by the attacks on September 11, 2001, the event did not suddenly and directly affect me in any personal way. The changes were much more gradual and, as such, hurt less.

Now, as I’ve been at home for two weeks, watching thing after thing being ripped away from you, from my children, from myself and my family; realizing that my parents might not see my baby until he’s almost not a baby anymore; experiencing a tightness in my chest and a panic as my husband goes out to the grocery store because we have no other choice; laying awake at night obsessing over symptoms and numbers… I’m realizing that my experience with 9/11 pales in comparison to your experience with this coronavirus.

Psychologists have posited, and I think they are correct, that what people are experiencing now is grief. We are grieving the loss of people, to be sure, as this virus takes the lives of more and more each day, but also the loss of what we thought our lives were going to look like – maybe in the short term, maybe for the foreseeable future, maybe forever… maybe all three. And I am not saying the nation didn’t experience a similar collective grief after 9/11. It did. I’m just saying that, in the egocentrism of seventeen, I didn’t experience it the same way as many others did.

But I am no stranger to grief. I had decided, at least in the short term, not to share this with my students, but extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. In September 2018, I lost a baby. Her name was Olivia. I was 17 weeks pregnant, and we had just found out she was a girl and given her a name. I had started to plan for her nursery. My oldest daughter had started to get excited about a little sister. A week later, we found out her heart had stopped beating.

I grieved her loss. Correction: I still grieve her loss. I have a feeling I will always grieve her loss, even as we have a new and wonderful baby in our home who wouldn’t be here had she lived. You, too, might always grieve the losses you are experiencing now, even as the loss of those things may make space for other new, wonderful things. That’s okay. Humans can experience two seemingly conflicting emotions at the same time if we allow ourselves to.

For a time, I told myself that other people had it worse. At least I was only 17 weeks along. At least I didn’t lose her so close to the end of the pregnancy, or after she arrived. At least I hadn’t set up her nursery yet. At least a million other ways this could have been more horrible than it was, it wasn’t that. And then I learned not to play the “at least” game with myself. I was sad, and I deserved to be sad. You may also play the “at least” game with yourself, or others may try to play it with you. Others are sick and dying, yes. Others are losing loved ones, yes. But even if the only thing you lose is a piece of your school year, that is a loss and you deserve to be sad about that loss. “Emotions need motion.” Sit with them, feel them, let them move through you. And let others do the same.

I had terrible and crippling anxiety for a long time after we lost her. The anxiety is probably what changed the most of my life for me. I was terrified I’d lose something else close to me. I felt completely out of control, and I felt like I had no control over anything in my life. Now, it must feel very similar to you. You don’t have a choice about what is being taken away from you and when. Everything you touch and every person you come in contact with feels dangerous. That feeling might linger, like it did for me. I practiced feeling it, noticing it, and letting it move away. I practiced deciding what was reasonable and expected to feel anxious about, and taking steps to mitigate some of the rest. It trained me for this very moment, though there is no cure for anxiety. I still feel anxious for myself and my family, especially in times like these. But now that monster has a name, and when we can name things, we can deal with them better.

People kept trying to find a silver lining for me. “Everything happens for a reason!” they’d tell me. Maybe they needed to believe that for themselves, but I didn’t believe it for me, and I still don’t. Sometimes, things just suck. Sometimes crappy things just happen. Losing Olivia sucked, and it was crappy. That’s all. And I can believe that her loss was horrible while believing that my life now is great without having to believe that her horrible loss happened for me to have a great life right now. I still would have had a great life with her, too, and it took a lot of work for me to find greatness in my life after she was gone. If it helps you to find meaning in this experience with a global pandemic, then please do that for yourself. But it might help to just let the situation suck for a while, knowing that it won’t suck forever.

And it truly won’t suck forever. I remember being at home after Olivia’s delivery in September 2018, just wishing that I could be on the other side of a year from her loss. I knew, even before I started my work on my mental health, that after a year, everything would look so much different. That I would be looking backward and forward like well-adjusted people do instead of just one step in front of me. That the pain would feel more like a dull ache than a constant stabbing. That I might have some answers to the questions racing through my mind. And, sure enough, by the time I met you in August of 2019, I had sat with my grief and anxiety. I had let them move through me. I had let them change me. And I was able to get through the next anxious thing: the delivery of my son. And I’ll be able to get through this anxious thing, too.

And so will you. I promise. You have an entire support system behind you, including your school. Including me.

When I left you a few weeks ago, I was comparing your experience now to my experience with 9/11. I don’t think that minimized what you were feeling at the time, but I do think that explanation may minimize what you are feeling now. That wasn’t my intention. At the time, I couldn’t grasp the magnitude of this situation. I may have been in denial. (I’ve worked through some of this, but I’m still human, and working through grief and anxiety is not linear. Some days you’ll feel great, and some days you’ll feel like crap again, especially when situations like this crop up. That’s ok. Just keep moving forward.) And I can’t pretend to know exactly how you are feeling. Your feelings are unique and completely individual. Your path through grief and anxiety are, too. Not everyone will recover from this in the same way; not everyone will recover from this at all. Respect yourself. Respect your process. Respect others and their processes, too.

There will be an end to this. This is temporary. A year from now, everything will feel so much different. In the meantime, I hear you. I am here for you. We’ll make it to the other side together.

With so much love,
Ms. Samsa