The Most Beautiful, Gut-Wrenching, Extraordinary Honor of My Life.

Front row at Celeste Barber, St. Pete, July 14th, 2022

Welcome to The Vagabond Life Coach's first official blog post.

This is a hard one to write because my life is a bit messy right now. But I know if I wait for things to be less messy, I'll never write anything, my soul will wither up and die, and my coaching practice will turn to crap. Plus, there's no better time than the present to embody the authors I admire- authentic, open, and honest, no matter how uncomfortable or painful something is.

So here goes...

My dear, sweet mother died seven weeks ago, and it’s turned my world upside down.

An aggressive cancer had silently spread through her body until it was too late. We found out in early August, and by November 7th, she had taken her last breath. I was her full-time caregiver in those final weeks and was tending to her as she stopped breathing. Watching someone die, let alone my mother, isn't something I thought I'd ever experience, at least not in this way.

It was beautiful, gut-wrenching, and the most extraordinary honor of my life. I have never been that fully present for such a long period before. For three weeks, nothing else mattered but what was right in front of me. When I caught myself numbing out on my phone, I put it down and lay next to her to cry instead. I feel grateful that the speed of decline meant she experienced minimal suffering, but I'm angry, confused, and shattered that someone so full of love and light gets taken out like that when selfish pricks are still roaming the earth. My brain can't compute it.

Thanks to my Adult Chair coaching certification, I've been doing really well with my grief, which also feels wrong. After watching countless movies in bed for the first two weeks, I put the tools into practice, stayed gentle with myself and slowly regained a positive momentum that’s continuing to blossom. However, the better I feel physically, the more wonky I feel in my heart. It feels out of sync to be this positive and well-adjusted after watching my mother slowly lose the ability to function less than two months ago.

I sometimes wonder if I'm doing well because perhaps the weight of what I witnessed hasn't sunk in yet. It still feels very surreal. Like it's happening outside of me, and I'm a character in a play. But maybe that's my brain easing me into the loss rather than bulldozing me with it.

The one word that keeps coming to mind as I carry forward without her is weird. Being in public feels weird. Like I exist in two worlds simultaneously- the one where everyone goes about their business pretending everything is fine and the one where something is gravely out of order. The world around me keeps moving when it feels like it shouldn't. I want everyone to ask me about my mother while simultaneously leaving me alone. How am I expected to pick back up and carry on as if a colossal force in my life hasn't suddenly ceased to exist?

And then I think to myself, "I'm not the only one that's ever lost a loved one or experienced tragedy. Are we seriously all walking around with these feelings every day and not talking about them??" I genuinely appreciate it when people ask how I'm doing, but I also feel resentful because I'm pretty sure most don't actually want the raw thoughts that come to mind.

I always reply with the socially acceptable, "It depends on the day or the hour; some feel normal and some are tough." And that is totally true; I'm not lying. But sometimes I'd like to say, "I lifted my mother on and off the toilet for two weeks as her body failed her. I watched the most lively human I know fade from existence two decades too early. That's how I'm doing."

The real challenge for me isn't the act of feeling my feelings; it's proactively creating time and space for them to surface and be witnessed. I assumed the grief would take control and do its own thing, using me as a conduit for physical expression when it felt like it. But I'm learning that sometimes, I must show up for it first and welcome it up from the depths of my soul. I also need to get better at reaching out to loved ones when I struggle to hold that space for myself.

I don't avoid reaching out on purpose; it's just that while living in Perth for the last five years, a polar opposite timezone, I often could not reach out to loved ones when I struggled because of the time difference. (Well, the more honest statement from my adult chair would be that I told myself the story I shouldn't call friends crying in the middle of the night.) So I inadvertently wired my brain to go it alone, currently making it a challenge to recognize when I could pick up the phone and call someone.

I know if I keep making baby steps towards self-care and give myself grace when I crash and burn, a gentle momentum will carry me through the years to a place where things don't feel as weird. And even though my mother's death feels like a devastating, unfair loss, I have also felt serendipitously supported by the universe throughout this shit tornado.

As mum became ill, I was just finishing up my coaching certification. How many people get six months of emotional health training right before they enter the most heart-shattering experience of their lives? Not to mention the 40-plus profoundly caring and qualified classmates I can reach out to for support- when I'm brave enough to do so.

Then there is my friend from childhood, who happens to be a brilliant radiation oncologist and once worked in our area for the Moffitt Cancer Center. She was our trusted second opinion and guided us through everything with honesty, love, and steadfastness that helped us stay grounded when everything was scary and out of control. How many people are lucky enough to have a specialist in their back pocket who is well-versed in their diagnosis AND has direct connections to the best professionals in their area?

In the days leading up to mum's death, she lost her ability to swallow, and I had to get up every two hours to administer liquid morphine. That weekend, another dear friend and critical care travel nurse moved back to the area for her new post. I called her for advice one night and burst into tears, fearing I would screw up the meds and cause mum discomfort or accidentally OD her. Within an hour, she was at the door to bolster me through the progressing end-of-life symptoms and even watched mum overnight so I could catch up on sleep in my bed.

Watching something crush your heart while concurrently knowing the situation is unfolding precisely as it should, is an exceptionally weird feeling.

So, where does this leave the Vagabond Life Coach?

Down but not out. Wobbly but not decimated. Forced to walk the walk down an uncarved path through dense emotional woods. Gifted an opportunity to lead by example for my future clients. After all, we can only take others as far as we've gone ourselves.

For me, this looks like slowing down and getting curious when I least want to. Looking at the TV remote but choosing the yoga mat instead. Tempted by Instagram but picking up a book on grief in lieu of silly memes. Watching one movie instead of three. Sitting at my meditation alter, breathing through the discomfort instead of trying to busy myself with unimportant to-dos. Ordering a coffee in tears because it's ok to be in public with grief. Allowing my grief to be and exist without doing anything to change it.

Writing my first official blog post in all its weird, confronting glory.

A few weeks before she died, the great Pegster said, "You're going to write about this and be famous one day." Now I don't know about the fame part, but I am certainly going to write about this so that I can comfort or open the minds and hearts of others, just as other writers, authors and brave humans have done for me.

Thank you for being here and sharing this with me.

With gratitude,

Cat