Saying goodbye to the former versions of ourselves

Identity death, pandemics, and learning from the trees

Image Captured by Mary Claire Photo. Image ID is of a pecan on the ground, still in its green shell.

I’ve been tying to decide how to share with you all some of the more challenging aspects of moving towards a slower place and pace of life. While my posts so far have been about the goodness of taking a break from social media, and about the richness of holding space for a more nuanced experience of my faith, there have also been shadow sides to this season. There’s been grief and loss. I think of what Daje James, The Story Doula, calls identity death. I think of the process we all go through when we lay our heads down on our pillows as one version of ourselves, and wake up at some point in the future to find we are wholly changed.

A few days ago, I was sitting on a Zoom call with my spiritual director. We’d spent the past thirty minutes or so turning over the many questions and fears I was carrying related to the changes I’ve experienced over the the past few years.

For a little context, my partner and I moved out of the city nearly three years ago, a few short months before the pandemic began. While we had every intention of saving money and moving back to the city, something about living in rural cattle country made more sense. Not only is rural living significantly less expensive than city life, but my husband had always wanted land for homesteading. When the opportunities arose for us to buy land and build a home here, we just kept saying yes. We’ll be celebrating one year in our new home in a couple of weeks.

Now that it’s been nearly a year, I’m starting to reflect on all that has transpired since we left the city three years ago. Something about these cool October mornings and this soft autumnal daylight makes it easier to pause and think more deeply.

Honestly, while I have found much nourishment and care in these slower, more spacious days, there has also been a tremendous amount of disorientation. Not only has my scenery changed, but so have my friendships, my work, the restaurants and coffee shops I frequent. My body has changed as I’ve dipped deeper into my thirties and discovered curves and pounds in new places. My community life is filled with people I barely know. Everything is different. I feel unlike myself on many days. And on even more days, I feel confused and unsure of my direction. Gosh, and did I mention how much I really miss my friends.

As my spiritual director and I reflected together on these details, we began considering how my personal disorientation is perhaps in concert with the layers of disorientation felt by countless others as we navigate a world very much changed by the pandemic. It’s easy to romanticize or idealize past seasons and places, but the truth is that time has been moving forward for all of us. Even the places I once loved most are no longer the same as what I remember them to be.

As time continuously propels us forward, grief and loss are inevitable. So long as we have breath in our lungs, some of our exhales will be goodbyes.

It’s taken me three years to begin saying goodbye to my old life. Giving voice to this shift is important because when I’m honest and clear about what I’m letting go, I find room in my spirit to welcome my life as it is today, not as it used to be. Today has it’s own challenges and lessons. Today has new neighbors to know, new communities to find and new problems to solve. Today has it’s own story to tell.

Rather than trying to go back into the past in an attempt to rekindle the flames of our pre-pandemic lives, we can light a candle right here, in welcome of the Sacred now.

I’m learning how to come home to the present moment, not only from the distant futures I imagine, but also from the past moments I’ve already lived. Why? Because a more beautiful way is unfolding right now. And if I’m lost in yesterday or tomorrow, I’ll miss it.

Thank you, as always, for traversing this inner landscape with me. I do not take your readership for granted. I pray you are finding the grace to exhale, say goodbye, and let go in whatever way you need. The trees are letting their old lives pass away in preparation for winter’s dormancy, and in due season, for new life.

May we follow their lead.

Much love, friends.

Bethaney

PS - If you’d like to dive deeper into themes of nostalgia and of learning to live in the present, instead of the past, check out my new AMBW podcast. It’s called Breadcrumbs. It’s a space to dive deeper into nuances of this post that I wasn't able to share above. These first couple of episodes are free. I hope you’ll give them a listen.