I'll End This Year Standing. That's the Real Win.
For me, 2020 started with the toughest phone call I’ve ever had to make.
Captured by Erwin Trollinger
If time could stop, it certainly stopped on March 3rd. Within seconds, my world changed in ways that I couldn’t have imagined, nor have adequately prepared for. My father had transitioned from this earthly life to the eternal— just as I was putting the finishing touches on a new article.
If I had truly listened to the chilling feeling I had in my gut, I would’ve stopped writing sooner. But in true editor’s fashion, I was on deadline, so I promised to check in on him in just a few minutes.
It’s the sound of my cousin’s fist slamming against the wall in disbelief—confirming what I already felt—that I’ll never forget. If devastation has a sound, allow me to share that it is absolutely gut-wrenching and it still lingers in mind. Right alongside the pain of telling (mostly inaudible) my mother that she needed to come home.
In the few months leading up to that day, my father’s health had begun to raise questions, particularly amongst his congregation. It was in those recent months that I started to notice he wasn’t himself. I thought it was just a phase. It would soon pass over, because the reality was—we’ve been here before. For over twenty years, he had poured into the lives of so many, counseling and encouraging—sacrificing time with his family to fulfill his role as Pastor. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have his moments of fatigue, but these moments were beginning to last longer than usual.
The night before his transition, my father asked to speak with me. It was the first time we sat and had a real conversation in full transparency and vulnerability. He was so adamant about talking to me as soon as I came in. Had I known then—what I do know now—I would’ve said much more as we reconciled our differences.
Rebuilding our relationship slipped right through my fingers, and that is my biggest regret. While I know time is not ours to control, knowing that I’ll never get that time is what breaks my heart. I’ll never get to tell him a few more times that I forgave him and that I already knew a long time ago, what he finally had the courage to admit. All I have to hold onto are twenty-seven years’ worth of memories and his final words to me.
Those words instantly bring tears to my eyes. It was the first time, in a very long time, that I saw my dad. I saw the man I knew. I saw the heart that worked to provide the best life for his family. The man that protected and always wanted the best for his Ta-Ta. It is that man that I truly miss.
He held so many titles, but to me, he was just Dad. He pushed me, he challenged me, and quiet as kept, he is the reason why I ever picked up a pen in the first place.
Losing him, indirectly made me put that same pen, right back down. In the months following his passing, my words were few and my love for creating was nonexistent. I wasn’t interested in adding any more bylines to an already extensive resume. Instead I fought between juggling desires to fast-track my healing process versus working my way through grief. (Neither option worked out well, by the way.)
Life doesn’t come with a blueprint, and I can assure you that grief doesn’t either. Healing is an ever-evolving, painful yet beautiful process. It’s intertwined with so many facets and there truly is no deadline. When I finally acknowledged this, I was able to honor where I was in my process and then extend myself grace.
That’s what 2020 taught me—amongst other things—grace. How to be gentle with oneself because sometimes the process is as black-and-white as simply putting one foot in front of the other. How to acknowledge and respect that love looks differently to and in everyone. Most importantly, how to honor that we are all fighting silent battles and compassion and grace is all that’s needed at times.
I’m certain that I’m not alone with these reflections. While 2020 took a lot from us, I hope that it’s also given you a desire to keep healing—and to keep fighting for your future. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you’ve subconsciously decided to do so. With me, you’re ending this year standing. Whether with a smile on your face, or tears in your eyes, you’re ending this year still standing. That is the real win. Please, never forget that.
Forever your babygirl— I miss you so much.