Last week I shared a story in Rachel’s Treehouse that garnered a beautiful response. Readers indicated it met them “right where they are” and made them feel less alone. This is why I started a blog back in 2010… and is why I continue writing today. If your heart needs a lift, please read on…
Early in my life, I learned that my inclination to care deeply and feel deeply, which often showed in visible ways, made other people uncomfortable.
So, I learned to hide my tears,
blink them back,
keep them in check
until I was alone.
It was there, in solitude, that I could feel to my heart’s content.
Throughout October, I carried an on-the-verge-of-tears tenderness, and I spent a lot of time by myself again.
It feels risky and vulnerable to even admit that. But the October Treehouse Zoom gathering with therapist and longtime friend Kerry Foreman helped me put some important pieces together – particularly when we talked about protecting both the tender parts and the strong parts within us.
When I watched the replay, I realized why it had felt so raw and yet so right. In my vulnerability, I make space for others to be vulnerable too. That realization opened something in me.
The next day, though, I had what Brené Brown calls a “vulnerability hangover.”
That unpleasant feeling resulted from sharing how much I’ve missed Avery since she left for college – the rite of passage that marked the true beginning of the empty nest.
After all, the suffering in the world is immense. Do I even have the right to talk about this?
But the absence of a human being in the spaces they once inhabited – no matter the reason – is loss.
The following day, I opened up to a friend who immediately put it into perspective.
“Of course it hurts. Of course you’re in pain,” she said gently. “Rachel, you’re grieving a loss of role. The way you parented Natalie changed a few years ago; the way you parent Avery changed when she left home this fall, and it will never be quite the same. Add to that the fact that her physical presence is suddenly gone, and the fact that you are deeply troubled by the distance between the world as it is and the world as it should be. You are grieving, Rach. Give yourself grace.”
As tears streaked my cheeks, I felt so seen.
In our Treehouse gathering, a member asked a powerful question to those who identify as “the strong ones” about being willing to receive help when someone notices something is off. I realized this was my chance to practice what we’d talked about – to listen to what my friend was saying.
Give yourself grace.
She meant stop being so hard on myself in this season of personal and collective grief… and allow myself to feel, fully.
But what does that look like? I wondered. Giving myself grace doesn’t come easily, especially under the current circumstances we find ourselves in. So, I decided to approach it differently. I asked myself, where do I feel grace?
That answer came quickly: when I am in nature. Specifically, when I watch the birds at my feeder.
Avery knew this when she bought me the “Messenger” Willow Tree figurine last Christmas.
“When I’m at college,” Avery explained, “and you see a red bird come to your feeder, it can be our point of connection.”
When I first spotted Rudy this fall – the brightest cherry-apple-red cardinal I’ve ever laid eyes on – I knew Avery had sent him. At first, Rudy visited the feeder at dawn and dusk, as cardinals typically do. But over time, he began showing up more often, until it seemed our bird feeder had become his personal diner.
What does it mean when a red cardinal never leaves? I finally typed into Google. I couldn’t find an answer online, so last week, I decided to simply observe.
And do you know what I saw?
Rudy, our self-appointed head chef of the feeder, plucked off a seed and gently placed it in the mouth of a small sparrow struggling to get food.
Aren’t cardinals only supposed to feed their own? I wondered, a bit stunned.
And then it struck me… maybe this was what I was meant to see: a glimpse of the world as it could be. The birds showing us how care might look when we stop drawing lines around who is worthy of it.
As I began to cry, past conditioning told me it was silly to cry over such a thing.
But then I heard a little voice from long ago say, “It’s okay. Cry if you need to. That’s just who you are, Mama.”
It was Avery at five years old. The first time she noticed me holding back my emotions.
That was it. That was grace I needed in this moment – the point of connection that transcends distance and time, the reminder that love expressed in care and tenderness is never lost.
Later, I came across these poignant words from author and psychotherapist Lisa Olivera that gave language to what I’d been feeling as I watched Rudy feed the sparrow:
“Feeling the relief of not trying to rise above the grief and ache of the moment we’re in; feeling the tenderness of facing and meeting the hurt of it all with a loving presence, with an ‘of course it hurts,’ with gratitude for the willingness to face it little by little, day by day, moment by moment. This willingness to face it helps me also face and feel the beauty, the gifts, the goodness; together, they become a spiral of aliveness that bolsters and nurtures amid it all.”
Lisa’s words reminded me that when we stop trying to rise above grief – our own or the world’s – we open ourselves up to feel both the ache and the beauty. We become part of the circulation of life, the one that keeps us connected to the living, breathing world and fiercely determined to do our part in protecting it.
So, when the ache returns, whether from the state of the world or the empty chair across the table, let’s pause long enough to say, of course it hurts. Then step outside and remember: goodness and grace are still within our sight.
We won’t close our (teary) eyes.
We won’t stop believing in what could be.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
At the end of the essay, I explained that the Treehouse comment section has become my weekly Hope Scroll (the opposite of Doom Scroll, which I wrote an essay about in September) — and so often what keeps me going. “If you have the bandwidth,” I wrote, “please tell us: Have you ever received a small sign that reminded you that you are not alone? or What’s been helping you keep your eyes (and heart) open lately?”
Here is a small sample from the over 50 uplifting comments that were shared. Please enjoy, and feel free to add your stories and experiences to the collection:
As always, you’re welcome to receive my free writings from Rachel’s Treehouse straight to your inbox—and, if you wish, engage with a like-hearted community on a path to self acceptance and true belonging. Through vulnerable reflections on midlife, empty-nesting, and dreaming again, the Treehouse offers a place to land softly, reconnect deeply, and rediscover what makes you come alive.
✨ If you’ve been asking, “What now?” the Treehouse is a safe space to begin again.
