Ageless Ambitions: Fearlessly Pursuing Knowledge

In January, I made the decision to return to school—an aspiration that has lingered for far too long in the corridors of my mind. Why the delay? One word: fear. The prospect of diving back into the demanding realm of academia at mid-life is undeniably intimidating. The sheer time commitment required for classes, coupled with the countless hours of study and research, is ample grounds for even the most driven student to succumb to bouts of anxiety and break out in hives. Then there's the nagging question of mental acuity. Will my brain's synaptic connections recall how to absorb and retain information as effortlessly as they once did in the distant days of my youth? And what if—dare I utter it—I fail?

But what if I don't fail? What if I view the collective hours invested in classes and studying as a valuable investment in myself? What if my brain's cognitive functions kick into high gear and I rediscover a passion for learning? Remarkably, that's precisely what has transpired. With each passing week, as my confidence has swelled, I've come to the realization that I CAN DO THIS!

I've often challenged others with the quote, "The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek." It was high time I heeded that very advice and charged boldly into the realm of uncertainty and challenge regardless of the age on my driver's license. Just last week, I took four tests. The subject matter is dense, and the tests themselves are unequivocally arduous. However, my scores—a resounding 100, 96, 100, and 92—served as a testament to the immense rewards that await once we muster the courage to confront our fears head-on no matter how old we are. We should never let fear, or age, hold us back from learning.

So, if you happen to come across a bleary-eyed redhead downing numerous venti espressos while muttering about HR Law to herself, extend a word of encouragement and reassure her that she's more than capable of conquering this endeavor—and remember, so are you once you take the leap to do so.

Breathe

February 4, 1998. I had been rushed to the hospital, my mind spinning at warp speed, my breathing rapid and chaotic, tears streaming down my face, and every cell in my body filled with fear and anxiety. I wanted to close my eyes and eternally surrender to the darkness that had plagued my mind.

In the ether of the turmoil, I faintly heard a voice calling out, "LoriAnn! I'm Dr. Ramos. Can you hear me? LoriAnn, can you hear me?" Slowly, I turned my head to the left, attempting to connect with the voice beckoning me. My eyes immediately met those of an attractive Latino man, dressed in a soft cashmere scarf and a dark gray sweater. It might have been the warmth exuded by his attire, coupled with the look of compassion on his face, but his mere presence brought an unexpected sense of calmness mingled with curiosity. Our eyes locked, and he gently smiled as he said, "I need you to do something."

 "Okay," I replied without hesitation, placing my immediate trust in whatever he was about to ask of me. "Breathe," he softly instructed. "Just breathe." Nodding through the tears and anxiety, and with my eyes still fixed on his, I took a deep breath in as he breathed with me. Then another breath, and another. Before long, an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility washed over me.

"I'm Dr. Ramos," he kindly introduced himself again, still wearing a gentle smile. "Hi," I responded graciously. "Rough night?" he inquired. I nodded, crying, and said, "Rough life." “Well," he said, "we’re going to work on that together and get you feeling better. Sound good?” “Yes,” I said. “That sounds great." His words, paired with his genuine empathy, offered an instant balm for my soul, forging an immediate trust and lifelong bond. 

That night marked my initial steps toward recovery from severe anxiety and depression. Dr. Ramos and I would spend the next 18 months walking through my healing and reclaiming my mental and emotional fortitude. I’ve often said that if you x-ray my heart, you’ll see a small part where Dr. Ramos’ name is etched on it.

Sitting here 26 years later, mentally and emotionally healthy, reflecting on the terrified girl lying on that hospital stretcher, wishing to close her eyes and never open them again, I am humbled and overwhelmed with gratitude. I am immensely proud of how far she has come. Since then, I've learned that no matter how dark, scary, or painful the circumstances may be, never, ever give up. Amidst the pain and darkness, there will always be sparks of light guiding you to the other side. No matter how challenging the battle, fight, and fight hard, because you are worth it.

Dr. Ramos changed my life with a single word: 'Breathe.' It was a simple yet profoundly powerful reminder of how to calm my mind and soothe my soul. Our lives begin and end with a breath. I am grateful for the billions of breaths I've taken since that harrowing day. They haven't always been easy, but they were mine to have and meant to be had.

Here's to the frightened girl who, 26 years ago, bravely affirmed she was enough and worth the fight, and who discovered the transformative power in learning how to truly breathe. Every day and every breath since has been a precious gift.

Leading Through Trust

The chilling shower sequence in the iconic American thriller, "Psycho," remains one of the most intense and unsettling scenes in the history of cinema. It left a lasting imprint on audiences, instilling a profound fear of showering and forever associating the simple act with the bone-chilling screech of violins that accompanied the scene.

What does the movie "Psycho" have to do with leaders leading through trust? Quite a bit. Let me elaborate.

Bernard Herrmann was an acclaimed composer and conductor, primarily recognized for his outstanding contributions to film composition. He is particularly celebrated for his collaboration with the director Alfred Hitchcock, most notably on the film "Psycho."

During the filming of “Psycho”, Hitchcock initially intended for the shower scene to be devoid of any music. However, Herrmann, ever the musical genius, strongly believed that the scene required music to enhance its terrorizing impact. During post-production, Hitchcock began to express concerns about the shower scene feeling incomplete and lacking a more amplified tone of terror. 

This presented Herrmann with an opportunity to provide Hitchcock with the solution to the scene's shortcomings. Herrmann approached Hitchcock and enthusiastically stated, "Well, I did compose something. Would you like to hear it?" Upon receiving Hitchcock's approval, he played that ever-so-haunting and famous barrage of screeching violins. When Hitchcock heard what Hermann had composed, he immediately changed his mind and recognized how the intensified sound of the sharply accented strings created the perfect chilling atmosphere that the scene was missing. Hitchcock was quoted as saying, "Well, absolutely, we'll use that." 

If Hitchcock had stubbornly resisted Herrmann's expertise and refused to defer to his judgment, the world would have been deprived of one of the most famous musical compositions in cinematic history. Moreover, this decision could have diluted the intensity of the iconic shower scene's impact. Fortunately, Hitchcock recognized the importance of setting aside ego and entrusted Herrmann's creative genius. This trust was indicative of a collaborative partnership between two renowned experts in their respective fields. 

Today's leaders can glean a valuable lesson from Hitchcock. In our roles as leaders, we ascend to our positions based on our expertise and our ability to offer effective solutions. It's undeniable that we've dedicated significant time and effort to earn our credentials. Nevertheless, there are moments when we find ourselves without the answers or a clear strategy to navigate a complex issue. Recognizing when to take a step back and tap into the talent and expertise within our team can often yield the desired outcome. This act requires humility.

Ironically, vulnerability is a conference room where many leaders hesitate to enter. However, it takes genuine courage to embrace vulnerability and abandon ego. By doing so, we empower others to step forward and contribute their insights and capabilities. This, in turn, leads to a more collaborative and successful approach to problem-solving. 

Recognizing the importance of stepping aside and affording an opportunity for your team to take the lead in providing solutions is a hallmark of effective leadership. Exceptional leaders understand that they aren't necessarily the best at everything. Instead, they seek out individuals who excel in various areas and aim to unite them under a common goal. For myself, I prioritize hiring people on my team who bring expertise in areas where we can offset our individual strengths and where I can grow as a leader from their knowledge and skills. This approach strengthens the team and fosters personal and professional growth for all involved, allowing us to be better together. Failure to adopt this approach just might leave you with a sense of helplessness and despair, much like Janet Leigh's fate as Marion Crane, lifeless and slumped over the bathtub, requiring you to cue the violins, fade out, and call cut!

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.

Farewell My Friend

"LoriAnn, I have some very sad news to share." Deep down, you're already aware that what follows will not be easy to hear.

The news was indeed very sad. It was undeniably sorrowful. My dear friend Terri, who is also the wife of my beloved friend and former colleague, Byron, had the painful task of informing me that Byron had unexpectedly passed away. The news hit me with the force of a cruel blow, and a chilling numbness swept over my entire body. I found myself screaming in disbelief as if my denial could somehow rewrite the reality before me. Byron's passing has left me utterly devastated and heartbroken. He was only 47, departing painfully too soon and leaving an already irrefutable void. 

Byron was my former HR leader from my time at McGladrey. He was a mentor, guide, friend, and a truly exceptional human being. Working under his leadership was a privilege and so much fun. He possessed the remarkable ability to recognize talent and skills within me that I hadn't yet discovered. He boldly pushed me into the necessary scary and uncomfortable places, with the intention of shaping me into the HR and talent acquisition leader I am today. He was one of the first leaders to give me wingspan and the freedom to explore and excel, while also offering a safety net should I stumble. Through his own example, he taught me the noble act of falling on the sword for my team, and he also knew when to rein me in if I got out in front of myself. He affectionately nicknamed me "Fireball," - emblematic of my unyielding determination. Every so often I'd hear him utter, "Hold on there, Fireball. Let's take a step back and walk through this slowly." He’d then guide me with compassion and grace.

Byron's sense of fairness was unwavering, and his ethical standards set the benchmark for HR excellence. A significant portion of my leadership persona was molded under his tutelage.

What truly elevated our connection was that he and his family became a loving extension of my own. He assumed the roles of big brother and mentor to my son. Our interactions transcended the professional realm, as we shared life's experiences, fun-filled family get-togethers with abundant laughter, and ceaselessly uplifted one another. He and his family loved, I mean LOVED, my chocolate chip banana bread. And I was all too willing to bake countless batches of it for them.

In light of all this, Byron faced a myriad of struggles and inner demons, engaging in a frequent and intimate dance with them. Our conversations often delved into the battles he fought. I mention this as a testament to the intricate tapestry of human experiences and the multi-dimensional nature of him and our friendship. In a heartfelt conversation with a friend, I tearfully expressed my profound anger over how his demons ultimately prevailed, silencing him forever. This tribute serves as a voice for him, and to break the tragic silence that has befallen him and those who held him dear. 

Our last exchange occurred a few weeks prior to his passing after a call he had with my son, and his final message resonates deeply within me:

"Hey - not that you need my reassurance, but your son is amazing. You've done an incredible job, Mom. We had a meaningful talk about the writer's strike. He's an inspiration to me, and you built him from the ground up. Thank you for bringing him into our lives and sharing him with us. He is truly a gift. Love you." ♥️

My response echoed gratitude for the sentiment and concluded with "Love you. XOXO." ♥️

I've revisited the entire history of our text exchanges countless times, cycling through moments of laughter and tears. The solace lies in the fact that our last words to each other were ones of inspiration and affection, and concluded with a heart emoji. Just like so many times before, they were infused with love and the essence of a beautiful and tender friendship.

My heart is a mixture of love and heartache. The memories I've shared with Byron are treasures I will forever hold close. My thoughts are with Terri, and his children, as they grapple with the absence of their beloved father and husband.

I'm left with a profound sense of loss and devastation and completely shattered. Coming to terms with Byron's passing and the realization that our exchanges—conversations, emails, texts, and get-togethers—have reached an irrevocable conclusion is a process I will forever be navigating. I'm striving to comprehend the depths of this loss as well as extend comfort to my son.

The weight of it all is overwhelming, a poignant reminder of the imperative to be wholly present, to embrace life in its entirety, to release trivial matters, to quickly forgive, to hug longer and tighter, and to love deeply the individuals who grace our lives. It's a call to transcend our self-imposed barriers, quiet the ceaseless chatter of our minds, and relentlessly embrace the beauty of each day we are granted on this amazing journey we call life.

Here's to you, my dear friend. Thank you for the beautiful and invaluable lessons you've taught me. For the camaraderie, affection, and laughter you so generously offered. Thank you for the countless engaging, candid, and vulnerable heartfelt conversations as we sought answers to our shared burdens. You were my brother, my friend, my confidant. Your name is etched upon my heart, and you will forever occupy a special place in my life. Both Stephen and I are committed to standing by Terri and the children, supporting them as they grieve your absence and move forward in a world without you. In due course, we will share stories of our time with you, ensuring your memory lives on.

For now, my friend, the time has come for you to finally and fully embrace peace and gracefully dance among the angels.

Love and miss you!

Goal Setting at Strawberry Field

The summer following my tenth birthday, my parents granted me permission to take on a summer job, allowing me to earn some pocket money, and, in hindsight, a deep respect for day labor. I embarked on this journey by working at the mecca of produce in our tiny town of Swansea, MA – Chace Farm. I lived about half a mile from the farm and always admired the meticulous rows of plants and quaint fruit and veggie stand when we’d drive or walk by our local agricultural gem. Of all its yummy offerings, Chace Farm was known for its delicious, mouth-watering strawberries. It was not uncommon to find a pint or two of their succulent strawberries adorning the kitchens and tables of our fellow residents within our neighborhood.

On the morning of my inaugural day pursuing what I believed to be a venture into "serious money-making," I was vibrating with giddy enthusiasm. After all, I was now an up-and-coming professional woman earning my own money, and even though my journey began quite literally at dirt level, the sky was the limit. This day was also poised to mark a pivotal lesson in goal setting that would resonate throughout my lifetime.

With a fervent determination and a hearty combination of Cheerios and Tang fueling me (yes, Tang - after all, it was the 70s and if it was good enough for astronauts, it was good enough for me), I eagerly set forth to become the money-making prodigy that would undoubtedly become a source of parental pride, especially in conversations with their friends. I could envision the scenario: parents competing to outdo each other with their children's remarkable achievements. Meanwhile, my parents radiated joy as they happily shared that their daughter was occupied that day, giving an interview to Rolling Stone magazine in recognition of her achievement as the adolescent entrepreneur of the year. Brimming with the confidence of a person adamant about capitalizing on their earning potential, I hurriedly skipped to Chace Farm, each step becoming a leap towards my financial ambitions.

During my gleeful and determined sojourn to the farm, I resolved that the day's strawberry picking would yield a grand total of $100 for me. Now, in hindsight, I realize my tender age of ten shielded me from the intricate economic realities of agriculture. Nonetheless, I clung to an unwavering determination to become the epitome of financial success that summer. My soul was ablaze with aspirations, and I believed myself en route to achieving a financial status akin to Rockefeller's.

I entertained myself with fanciful thoughts of the exciting spoils my $100 would afford me. My list included: a tape recorder, a pink Huffy bike with accompanying tassels, the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine, a new flavor of Bonnie Bell lip gloss – strawberry, of course, to punctuate the experience – and a coveted pair of Trax sneakers. All of these treasures would be procured from our town's grand emporium of retail delights, Kmart.

I excitedly arrived at the farm and reported in with the farmer. She carefully instructed me on my duties and informed me that she’d pay me 25 cents for every five-quart basket of strawberries I picked. The strawberries had to be plump, fully ripe, and free of bruising. Unfazed by her directives and blissfully unaware of the size of a five-quart basket, I readily accepted her terms with eagerness. Without hesitation, the farmer handed over several five-quart baskets, and a realization dawned upon me – this was going to be much more challenging than I had initially anticipated and perhaps an extra glass of Tang would have been a wise choice. The farmer then proceeded to inform me that the baskets also had to have a cap. Still unaffected by the task, I took the baskets and set off to a row of strawberries ready to accumulate my fortune.

After several hours hunched over strawberry plants under the scorching July sun, my Cheerios and Tang had waged an internal battle, leaving me feeling lightheaded and a bit queasy. Covered in dirt and drenched in perspiration mixed with the sticky residue of strawberry juice, I conceded to the overwhelming fatigue and sunburn that was now smarting. It was evident that it was time to present my hard-earned harvest to the farmer and claim my day's earnings.

Throughout the morning, the farmer carefully took note of how many baskets I surrendered. As I laid my final strawberry bounty before her, covered in berry-strewn clothing and hair, I stood readily awaiting my earnings. The farmer tallied a total of 17 baskets of strawberries. She then carefully placed in my weary, strawberry-stained hands a mere 4.25 cents for hours of arduous fruit-filled labor. As I stared at the paltry sum, I couldn't help but imagine myself as a modern-day Oliver Twist, standing before the stern headmaster, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and yearning, as I gathered the resolve to utter those iconic words, "Please sir, I want some more." And more was what I desired. But for the time being, a well-earned shower and a hearty lunch awaited, where Kool-Aid would play substitute to the mornings elixir of Tang.

As my berry money-making escapade came to an end that day, a vital lesson had come squarely into view: the art of crafting attainable goals. Too often we get so caught up in the excitement of the reward that we lose sight of the very road map leading us there. I was so excited about what I was going to do with the money I earned that I failed to realize how my over-zealous ambition positioned me for eventual disappointment coupled with an immense amount of sweat equity, yielding a less-than-moderate return on my investment.

We have grandiose ambitions that come with a checklist longer than the unabridged version of "War and Peace". We chase after these colossal feats with the fervor of a caffeinated squirrel, only to find ourselves as worn out as an overused typewriter ribbon. The idea is to ensure our aspirations are as achievable as they are admirable.

Whether establishing goals personally or professionally, engineer them to be measurable, achievable, and realistic. Do your research – like understanding the efforts required to fill a five-quart basket of strawberries. Be prepared for setbacks and have a contingency plan ready to address them when they arise. Most importantly, don’t get so fixated on the reward that you lose sight of the purpose of your goal. After all, shouldn’t the journey be just as delightful as a bowl of decadently delicious summer strawberries from the bygone days of Chace Farm?

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.

 

The Unwelcome House Guest

Photo Credit - Brandon Scharr

I recently had an unexpected and unwelcome house guest. He signaled his arrival in his usual obnoxiously intrusive manner—relentlessly ringing my doorbell and demanding immediate entrance. When I opened the door and witnessed his all too familiar maniacal grin, I was filled with exasperation coupled with a severe reluctance to let him enter.

His name is Depression. He has visited several times. Always uninvited and leaving a trail of disorder and ruin.

The battle of wits between Depression and me, and his unwelcome visits, has always been an intense struggle. I stand on one side, a strong and determined individual who has spent years developing my mental and emotional fortitude. On the other side, Depression, a cunning and insidious enemy who has plagued me for years.

Now, there he stood, again, on my porch with his oversized bags of anxiety, hopelessness, pain, exhaustion, and despair. He forced his way into my foyer pushing past me, attempting to throw his filthy, tattered baggage at me, which I refused to intercept. Noticing my lack of hospitality, he looked at me curiously, squinting his eyes, and slowly advanced his ugly visage closer to my face. I stood steadfast, unaffected by his bullish nature and stared back with an unwavering intensity that unnerved him. He cocked his head and grunted, sizing me up. “What, no welcome back?” he sarcastically chided. Depression could sense there was something different about me this time. He seemed excited about the challenge I was presenting yet uneasy about the position of authority I was exuding.

I pointed my finger to the right and signaled him to the living room. He looked surprised by the intensity of my command. He slowly and cautiously lumbered to the couch, never taking his eyes off me. “Sit,” I instructed. He sat deliberately with measured curiosity in this transfer of power being skillfully played out. I promptly sat down beside him, ignoring his snarls and attempts to intimidate me with his size and presence. I boldly locked eyes with him. He grimaced slightly and readied himself for my next move, and we took a collective breath.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” I began. “It’s clear we’ll be coexisting in the same space for the next several weeks; however, this is MY house and there are rules of engagement you will abide by while here.” Depression folded his arms and smirked, as if to say, “Oh, this is going to be entertaining.” “We’ve done this dance before,” I continued, “but, I’ll be leading the steps this time.”

“You can take the downstairs guest room. The reason is twofold: First, my bedroom is off-limits. It is my sanctuary from the stresses of the day. It is where I begin and end my day. You will not be allowed to determine the outlook at the start of my morning or torment my thoughts at night with your relentless mental overplay and anxiety. Second, I want you as far away from me as possible while you’re here.”

Depression became angry at my cold hospitality and started to lean in toward me. I put my finger up to his face and said, “Stop, right there.” He halted, with a twinge of surprise, keeping his gaze fixed on me. “Again, this is my house and you are a guest here, albeit an unwelcome one at that.”

“My mediation space is also off-limits,” I continued. “It is sacred and hallowed ground. And, as you are witnessing, it’s where I’ve equipped myself with the tools to overcome your abuses and traumas.” Depression looked at me with deep contempt and a boiling uneasiness.

“You can roam the rest of the house as you like, but you are not allowed to get in my way. And, don’t even think about unpacking those garbage bags you call luggage.” Depression’s frustration with my rules of engagement heightened. He began to breathe heavily and tightened his lips. He resembled a child forced to endure the summer with his excessively demanding and eccentric aunt and uncle, fully aware that the coming weeks would be woefully challenging and distressing.

Depression doesn’t do a one-night stand. On the contrary, he’s the consummate squatter. Depression took up residence for nine weeks. We ate meals and watched TV together. He drove to and from work with me. We did housework, gardened, worked out, and ran errands. We socialized with friends, and he even accompanied me on a few dates. He tempted me with trauma from the past, vitriol from social media, and moments of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. He was relentless in resurfacing recent hurts and losses.

Depression is a formidable foe and an unruly house guest who requires my full attention and all of my mental and emotional resources to overcome. During his visit, his strategies became more intense and persistent. There were moments when I grew anxious that he might prevail in this battle of wits. He was ruthless in his attempts to drag me into his putrefied pit of despair. As the weeks wore on, I learned to anticipate his attacks and took action before he could gain a foothold in my mind. I would counter his assaults with positive thoughts and actions, employing various strategies, such as exercise, therapy, meditation, faith, self-care, and leaning deeper into my trusted circle of family and friends.

I have learned to be the master of my own mind. Over the years, I’ve built a mental and emotional defense. And it was clear on this particular visit that Depression was no longer able to breach them, and I had gained ground against my hostile house guest, solidifying my fortitude.

On the eve of Depression’s last night with me, it was as if he had reconciled that it was time to vacate. Seated at my dining room table, he remained silent, his demeanor speaking volumes. His spirit conveyed a resounding acknowledgment of defeat. No words escaped his lips, yet his expression whispered the message loud and clear: “You've won.” In that moment, a bittersweet triumph washed over me. For too long, Depression’s visits had cast a dark shadow over my life, clouding my thoughts and stealing my joy. But now, in this profound shift of power, the tides had turned, granting me the strength to confront and conquer his adversarial prowess. And though there were minor wounds incurred that have now fused with the scars of the past, I am stronger and more resilient for having, yet again, faced such a formidable opponent. I could sense the surrender in his eyes, a poignant recognition that his hold over me had finally been broken. Though his silence prevailed, its eloquence echoed through the room, marking the end of an arduous visit.

On the dawn of the following morning, I eagerly bid Depression adieu and watched as he slowly faded from view and reveled in the liberation that washed over me. Within my soul, a mix of emotions swirled—a blend of gratitude and strength with a flicker of apprehensive hope. The burden that consumed my every waking moment during his visit had finally lifted. Though uncertainty lies ahead, I hold a steadfast confidence in my resilience and determination to navigate the path. As the taillights of Depression disappeared from sight, I whispered to myself, “Goodbye, old foe. Until next time.”

©2023 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
This product is protected by copyright and distributed under licenses restricting copying and distribution.

The Trifecta of Grief

Grief and loss are a universal part of the human experience. Multiple encounters with grief in immediate succession yield an amplified level of pain that has the power to deconstruct your spirit and make you dangerously question your will to be. You’re held hostage to mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion as you struggle to excavate your soul from the grips of heartbreak and pain. 

In the span of three months, I underwent three unexpected, significant losses as well as major surgery that dramatically altered my body. The surgery was welcomed and had been planned for quite some time; however, the physical and psychological toll had an unexpected effect that compounded my mental and emotional state.

When the third loss came, I felt as if my life’s breath had been knocked out of me for good. I found myself at the cross-section of wanting to close my eyes and never open them again or facing the pain head-on and learning to breathe with my own breath again.

The first blow came when I was informed my biological father was gravely ill. I received the message early on a Sunday morning. My father was living in Florida, and every part of me wanted to get to Florida to see him before he passed. I had a very fractured and complex relationship with my father, but my heart quietly hurt knowing I would soon be in a world without his presence. I had hoped that perhaps in his final moments of life, we might find peace and healing in our complicated relationship.

Out of what I believe was for my emotional and psychological protection, I was strongly advised not to come to his bedside. This was largely due to his current near-death state and appearance. I was told that this was not the way I would want to remember him, nor did he want me to see him in his diminishing condition.

Throughout the day, I jumped at every text message and phone call, fearful of the inevitable. My thoughts were filled with wondering whether my father was taking his proverbial last breaths: Did he know he was dying or was he too unconscious to know what was happening? I hoped he’d perhaps make a miraculous turnaround as he had done many times before. Unfortunately, this was not to be. My father passed away peacefully at 7:14 p.m. And just like that, the man I had so earnestly desired and chased for 40 years to have a relationship with was gone. Gone from this life. Gone from my life.

My last correspondence with my father was a year prior. I had poured my weary and wounded heart out and pleaded for an authentic father–daughter relationship. I had reached a point of too many failed expectations, hurts, and struggles with having a surface-level relationship. The letter cut his heart, but it was necessary for my healing to take place. He wrote me a few weeks later hoping we could get to a more sustainable father–daughter relationship, but it never came to fruition.

My father died knowing his daughter earnestly wanted to have her dad in her life — truly in her life. He died without us having an opportunity to right the wrongs. He died without me being able to tell him I forgave him and still loved him deeply despite our complicated story. My father died and a part of me died with him.

A celebration of life was held a few weeks after my father’s passing. Due to COVID-19 and the major surgery I was having two days later, I was unable to attend. This left me feeling a continued estrangement and lack of closure and compounded my grief. In essence, the blow had been doubly struck, but, as always, I found my way to the ropes and pulled myself up to get ready for the next round.
The second wave of grief came when my beloved cat of 17 years, Chloe, took ill. Over the course of a couple of weeks, she had become rail thin. Her spirits were surprisingly high, but she started to look old and tired. She consumed her food and treats voraciously, yet her weight continued to decline. The vet gently informed me she was most likely in her last few weeks of life and would soon cross over the rainbow bridge. Chloe lasted longer than my marriage.

Living with a cat is like living with a supermodel. Thankfully, Chloe was a far cry from the typical cat persona. She was sweet and adorably affectionate. Chloe was always curled up with me, my houseguests, or my dog, Jackson and showered us with warm kitty kisses and tender headbutts. She traveled across the country with me when I moved from California to the Carolinas and was my consummate funny, furry companion. She was always within a few inches of me when I worked from home, perched on the couch when I’d relax, or underfoot at the most inopportune times. She had a pink metal heart on her collar that jingled when she walked about the house or clanked against her dish when she ate — a gentle reminder of her sweet presence.

Following the vet’s original diagnosis, Chloe made an unexpected and welcomed turn for the better. I thought she might be using one of her nine proverbial lives. Her turnaround lasted a mere three days before she became weak and frail again. Then, one evening, around 11:30 p.m., I let Jackson out into the backyard for his final doggy break before bed. Chloe ran past me and out the door. Normally, she didn’t try to venture outside, so I slowly and gingerly walked behind her to grab or coax her back into the house. Anyone who’s owned a cat knows you can’t chase them. She briskly walked across the yard and through our wrought-iron fence. My heart dropped. I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t chase her even if I wanted to. It was pitch black, and she was venturing deeper into the wooded area beside our house. Chloe stopped, looked back, gave me a final gentle meow, and walked into the dark of the night. I was heartbroken. Devastated. My vet prepared me that she might hide under a bed or in a closet when the time came. It’s part of a cat’s primal nature to find a quiet place to pass. Chloe chose how and where she wanted to die, and, as painful as that was to accept, I had to respect it.

I stood at the fence and cried to her. “Chloe. No. No. Please, no. Not like this. Please, please not like this.” I got up every hour and rushed to the patio hoping she’d come back. I checked outside for several days, hoping to see her sitting on the doorstep, ready to sashay back in the house like nothing happened. After a week, I had to accept she was truly gone. I could hear the echo of her jingling collar for several weeks. I went through the painful task of removing her bed, toys, food dishes, and scratching post. I had suffered yet another loss without closure. The silence of her meows and sweet purrs looms as a painful reminder of her passing. After 17 years of being a family, Jackson and I were now void of a precious member. I felt as if a part of me had been severed.

The third blow came when the man I had been dating for six months chose to abruptly end our relationship. And he did so over— wait for it — email. Yes, an email he sent at 2:29 a.m. An email I didn’t open until I was walking into the office that morning. Arriving at work on a Monday, in tears and shocked, while co-workers were wondering what happened was gut-wrenching. It took me two days to respond to him. We agreed to meet the following Sunday to talk only to have him send another email at 11 p.m. the night before informing me he didn’t have it in him to meet.

The first email announcing the breakup felt like a knife in my heart. The second email plunged it deeper, twisting it, recklessly ignoring the intensity of the wound he’d just inflicted. It felt visceral and cruel. This blow came hard and swift, and, like the death of my father, it had multiple jabs and left me gasping.

We went from intense intimacy on multiple levels to him immediately posturing himself with intentionally limited communication and connection on top of his reluctance to meet face-to-face. He took this lethal shot at me and then just ran and hid leaving me to bleed out. I told him it felt like a death. To be so deeply connected to someone and then instantly — nothing. Refusing to provide me space to have positive closure only furthered the wounds and amplified the hurt and grief. I didn’t just have to grieve the loss of him and our relationship; I had to grieve the loss of his children, grandchildren, family, and friends he’d brought into my world. The loss was on a more profound level than I believe he was willing to acknowledge or had considered.

From our first hello until that fateful email, our relationship was pure magic. We traveled, had amazing experiences, set intentions, got lost in the deepest conversations, challenged and inspired each other, laughed hard together, and always — ALWAYS — had a wonderful time. He tenderly and meticulously cared for me after my surgery. There was this lovely equilibrium and rhythm to our relationship. He was the first man since my divorce (18 years ago) that I finally felt safe with and gave access to a part of my heart. He provided a space for me in his life that most men I’ve dated didn’t have capacity or the know-how to do because of their fear of commitment or outright brokenness. I must have whispered a million thank-you prayers for finally finding someone I connected so beautifully with — until the day we didn’t. Then, I found myself angry with God and the universe for teasing me with such a fulfilling and meaningful relationship only to savagely rip it away from me. And yet, despite the painful outcome, he was, and will always be, very special to me because our relationship revealed my ability to step into the scary emotional spaces and open my heart again. My soul now holds a tender hope for when the right man and opportunity to love and be loved again comes along. 

As an ironic and albeit humorous side note, two days after the breakup I received a note from my gynecologist informing me that he was moving to a different type of practice. Due to this change, he would no longer be my doctor. I found humor in realizing that the two men who had known me most intimately in the past six months had both left me in the same week. But I digress. 

In all three circumstances, I wasn’t given the opportunity for closure. I found myself constantly bouncing between grief and anger. Due to the nature of the losses, the grief is understandable; however, anger is not a playground I spend much time on. I found myself deeply frustrated by how much time I was being held hostage in this miserable, ugly space. My father and Chloe are gone and can’t provide me space for closure, and the one person in this trifecta of grief who can is treating me as if I, too, have passed from this life.

I had to have an honest conversation with myself about what I was experiencing. I had to stop distracting myself and running from the pain. I had to sit in the discomfort and messy of it, acknowledge its presence, and muster the guts to confront the ugly beast that is grief head-on. I purposed myself to process the emotions as they came. And came they did. I’ve cried more in the past few months than I have in the past several years. I haven't just cried; I've wept. I've wailed. I’ve screamed. The pain has come from a place that is deep and feels tentacled to every part of my soul. It's primal. Raw. Exhausting. Necessary.

The road to healing has been extremely challenging. However, it’s a road lined with the most beautiful friends and family cheering me on. A road many of them have traveled, and now they serve as my compass through the difficult and blistering steps. They have shown up large and consistently with relentless love and strength. They have been my refuge and have fiercely wrapped their arms and love around me with no intention of letting go.

I’ve learned to acknowledge the gift that grief is, even with its prickly, cutting, and painful sides. The pain means I was able to hold space in my heart to care and love. By embracing and exuding gratitude for the grief, I’m finding my way to an emotionally and mentally healthier me. I’m learning to breathe without heaviness in my heart and finding joy in the most extraordinary places. 

Acknowledging my grief and giving the darkness permission to cover me when the sun had been so absent has provided a path for the light to find its way back to me.

©2022 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
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