When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand. I’d read a line over and over again. Close my eyes. Repeat it. Sing it with the CD. Repeat ad infinitum. I managed it. I learned all the words. But it was like learning a foreign language. I didn’t know these names. I didn’t understand these references. As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue.
Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something. Answers? Peace? Breath? My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful? Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age. Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.
I remember being excited to drive. To vote. To teach. To worship. To become a parent. Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency. I feel burdened in a way that is new to me. I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.
We’re all still steeped in this pandemic. We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations. If that were all of it, it would be stressful. But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.
There are personal tragedies. Too many of them … and they just keep coming. A friend was in crisis recently. I called her mother. Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.
But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.
I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.
I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania.
I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic.
I don’t know how to teach remotely.
I don’t know how to fight systemic racism.
I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids.
I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.
Or the government.
Or the church.
Or the schools.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I.
Don’t.
Know.
I don’t know how to do any of this.
I’m looking around for the adults. There is only my reflection. There is no one to tell me the answers. There is no one to carry this burden for me.
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I wrote all of that yesterday. Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there. A lot of mistrust. Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans. Where would she live? How would she pay her bills? How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle. But I didn’t overreact. I didn’t panic. We talked. For hours. And ultimately, she decided to stay. I handled it.
This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot. I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing. She was bleeding. Not a little blood in her urine. Like, pure blood. I called the vet. We’re heading there today. I don’t know what will happen. She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo. It will be expensive. It might be scary. It might be sad. But I know I will handle it.
And then I think about my friend who lost her child. I mailed a card. I prayed. I sent money. And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief. She will handle it, too. She will get through, moment by moment. She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.
And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions. Maybe it’s not about fixing everything. Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all.
But we can handle it. We can handle our shit. One challenge at a time. One child. One lesson. One moment. One tragedy. One reform. One foot in front of the other. Together. Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief.