Black Chin Hair

a grief-y birthday post

If you want to hear me messily read this newsletter, you can click play.

A little preface.

I first started publishing my writing online shortly after my dad died. That blog was the original Finding the Flotsam (in case you’ve ever been curious about the name). Writing to process has been invaluable for me, so it only made sense I turned toward it during my darkest days. Why I was so drawn to take my grief journey and blast it out onto the World Wide Web isn’t something I’ve thought much about. Truthfully, I felt called to do it, so I did.

Photo by Jan Kahánek on Unsplash

Then I moved to Substack and in just over 1 year, I’ve written 126 posts and have just under 300 magical, curious, and marvelous subscribers. When I started publishing here, my intent was to write about whatever was alive within me or share various parts of my own healing journey in order to help others. To that end, I’ve stayed true to my mission, but lately, I’ve been holding back and sharing less, not because I haven’t wanted to, but because I was fearful. Fearful of letting my well-intended newsletter be dominated by grief. Fearful people would think I was trauma dumping in their inbox. Fearful of being the “griefy girl”. Hearing the societal whispers of, “shouldn’t she be over this by now” behind my back.

I hate when my own words call my out on my BS.

My grief has been very alive, very present and transforming into its next iteration, and yet, ironically, I’ve abandoned the practice I felt so called to do. I recently decided to start working with a grief coach,

Naila Francis

.

She asked this question on her intake paperwork, what would it mean to you to fully grieve your loss(es) and/or inhabit your life in a way that brings you peace, healing, freedom, and joy?

My answer: To integrate them. To allow grief to walk alongside me and continue to allow it to soften and open me. To continue to walk a path where love leads, not fear. Using my story, journey, experiences, and voice to help others.

Oooooooooof. Nothing like your own words ousting you. And so I write….on my mom’s 60th birthday no less.

You’re 60. You old fart. Well, not really, because your dead.

I think I let you die with coarse black chin hair even though that was one thing that you firmly stipulated that you DID NOT WANT TO EVER HAPPEN, or maybe I didn’t? I’m just hoping that if I did you can cut me some slack. I was keeping you alive through a tube in your stomach remember? I suppose if you want to haunt me occasionally as punishment that’s acceptable. Although, I’m probably extra screwed now that I just told the whole internet you might be rotting in the ground rocking a ‘stache. Hey internet, cut her some slack. She had ALS and couldn’t move. Extra facial hair was courtesy of me. But also, mom…..33 has been the year, I’ve found one or two on my chin and it’s HORRIFYING.

I had a full blown sing-a-long to Don MClean in the kitchen last weekend. Do you remember when you’d pick Sam and I up from school and we’d sing American Pie at the tops of our lungs and see who could hold the note at the end of this line the longest, “Helter skelter in a summer swelter. The birds flew off with a fallout shelter Eight miles high and falling fasttttttttttttttttttttt”.

You and I had a lot of fun when I was younger. You were my buddy. I came across this picture from St. Patrick’s Day at Nana’s when we thought it was appropriate to wear the cabbage.

I know it got messy in the middle, but I like to think that someday we might’ve gotten back there, and because you and your chin hair aren’t here to tell me otherwise, I’ll let that be my truth.

I hope that there’s a whole pile of your favorite mini cupcakes and vanilla ice cream for you today.

Love yah,

May

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