My mom came to stay with us right after I was released from the hospital. She just left. I am beyond grateful she came to be with me. With us. She’s been a tremendous help, not only physically with the house work, and walking my dog, and feeding me. But she has also kept me company, unknowingly distracted me from the fear and pain that sits just below the surface - and in a good way. (Don’t worry, I’m dealing with those feelings and emotions in counseling.) I’m grateful that she’s at a stage in her life where she can be away from her home to be with me. I am grateful to her husband for being supportive of her being here with me. I am grateful we live in a world where it’s not too difficult for her to travel across the country to be with me. But most of all, I am beyond grateful to have had this time with her.
My mom moved across the country from me when I was sixteen. We didn’t live in the same city again for over twenty years. Still, through the years, we always worked on our relationship. When we finally did live in the same city again, we relished and took major advantage, seeing each other as often as life would allow. But fate had it so that I had to move away from her, back across the country. It was not an easy decision to make, but I was (and am) grateful that my mom took the news in stride and understood my choice. She’d already visited this past summer, her annual trip to see as many of her kids and grandkids as possible. But she came back. For me. She knew I was in crisis, and that the crisis would last, and she came. And she stayed.
Life is fragile. And as much as we attempt to tell ourselves that on a regular basis so we don’t forget it, it’s too easy to do just that - forget it. I believe that the majority of the time we’re on this planet, our brain subconsciously convinces us that we are invincible. That we have plenty of time to live our lives, and in all honesty, that’s not statistically, or entirely false. However, it’s not entirely true either. There are so many things that could shorten this life without any warning. And beyond that, life has a way of pulling us in countless directions. We chase after goals, strive for success, and plan endlessly for a future that feels constantly just out of reach. Yet, in all our pursuits, we tend to overlook one of the simplest and most profound truths: life is fragile.
We often assume that there will always be more time - another day to say “I love you,” another week to visit that friend, another chance to reconnect with family. But life doesn’t make promises. It doesn’t guarantee us more time. All we truly have is this moment, fleeting and precious, often slipping through our fingers while we’re too busy to notice.
I’ve seen it firsthand in ways that have left me reeling. I’ve lost many friends in many different ways. I’ve been on the receiving end of a message to say someone is gone, without warning. Or sat with a friend where time seems to stand still, as they grapple with a diagnosis that changes everything. We are all so vulnerable, our existence held by threads that can fray without notice.
Yet, in the midst of this fragility, there is an undeniable beauty - the beauty of being present with the people who matter most. In our shared moments of love, laughter, and even sorrow, we are reminded of what truly matters. It’s not the deadlines or the promotions, but the quiet mornings with a partner, the laughter over an old joke with a friend, or the shared silence of simply being together. These moments, fleeting as they are, leave imprints on our hearts that last long after everything else fades away.
It’s easy to think that those we love will always be there. But we need to remind ourselves of the truth: the people in our lives, those who love us unconditionally, are not permanent fixtures. They are gifts, here for an unknowable amount of time. And we, too, are just as impermanent in their lives. That’s probably why my mom didn’t hesitate to get on a flight to come and be with me, support me, protect me, help me, love me.
So, I am going to do my very best to be intentional at all times moving forward. I will call my parents, children, and siblings more, tell my friends how much they mean to me, and show up for people - not just in times of need, but in the ordinary, everyday moments. I’m going to put down my phone, stop waiting for the ‘right time’, and just be with them. Because in the end, when the sands of time start to run thin, these connections, these shared experiences, will be what we hold onto.
Life is fragile, yes. But love, presence, and appreciation? These are the things that make it all worthwhile. I want to hold them close, while I still can.
So, my mom left. This morning. And I’m still trying to process everything. I’m finding it really challenging to see into my future, and I’m not sure why. I know I’m going to heal from this. I know I’m going to get back to being a more capable and mobile human being, so what’s my issue? I’m not dying, nor am I dead…I‘m stuck in limbo. I feel like I’m stuck between the moment of impact and a future I can’t quite see. I am grateful to be alive. Really, I am, but inside, I’m just stuck.
Physically, I am healing. My bones are mending, the bruises are fading, but something remains broken. Something deeper, and I can’t seem to fix it. I can’t even name it.
Everyday, I try to move forward. I try to live life in this new reality, but there’s this invisible wall in front of me. It’s like I’m walking in place, watching the world move ahead, watching people in their routines, while I’m frozen. I look at myself in the mirror and feel like a stranger is looking back at me. I can’t imagine what next week looks like, let alone next year. My future feels blank, as if the accident stole my ability to dream, to hope - though other traumas this year have also contributed I know.
Everyone keeps saying that it’ll get better. That time heals. But it feels as though my life has been split into two - before and after - again, and I’m unable to bridge the gap between them. It’s not that I don’t want to move forward, it’s that I feel as though I can’t. I can’t picture it. I can’t feel it.
What’s holding me back? I wish I knew. Maybe it’s the fear that nothing will be the same, that the person I was before the accident is gone forever. Or maybe it’s just an emotional reaction to my mom leaving. I hate that she’s so far, and I’ve loved having her here - am I afraid to be alone? I really don’t know.
I wake up every morning willing myself to believe today is the day I move forward and no longer feel held back. But so far, it hasn’t been. I want to feel like I’m alive again, not just existing. I want to be able to look into the future without seeing that wall. I want to be more than just the survivor of an accident; I want to be someone who can find meaning after it. But I’m clearly not there yet. I’m just here, in this limbo, trying to figure out what it means to truly survive.
Life is fragile, and in its most vulnerable moments, it has the power to either ground us in gratitude or trap us in a state of limbo. I’m clearly struggling between both. I’m discovering that surviving something that could’ve taken us can be both a gift and a burden, leaving us suspended between what was and what might be. The weight of our survival can keep us from moving forward, but it also reminds us of the fleeting nature of our time here. We owe it to ourselves, and to those we love, to find a way to move beyond the numbness, to rebuild our future even when we can’t yet see it clearly. Because while life may be uncertain, our connections with others - and the strength we find in them - can be what eventually guides us out of the darkness, helping us live, not just survive.
Thank you for always helping me live, mom. I love you.
Ⓒ September 2024. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.
Comments