I have always dreaded one distinct feeling in my stomach, where your heart sinks and your insides become knotted.
Whenever that feeling arrives, I’m 12 years old again, awakened by my mother who said she had to talk to me. In a half-dreaming daze, I stumbled into her room and climbed onto her bed, figuring this talk would be about my poor attitude or grades — something that was easily reparable.
Suddenly, my world flipped upside down. That feeling I hate so much overtook me for the first time. It was as if the bed I was sitting on had disappeared beneath me.
“Daddy passed away,” my mother explained, three simple yet shocking words that seemed too heavy for the air to carry.
It was like I had fallen off the playground and had the wind knocked out of me, only I hadn’t. I was not on the playground. I had not fallen. I was in bed crying with my mother, whom I had never seen cry before.
Now, seven years later, that feeling is not as painful or sharp. It no longer crashes into me but drifts in like a memory that refuses to fade. It comes in brief waves.
That feeling will always be there.
It comes in the form of guilt when I catch myself calling my adoptive father, John, “Dad.” It comes when I think of my friends with two birth parents who know everything about them.
My dad knows nothing about me past the age of 12. My favorite color is no longer pink, as he would remember, and I don’t seem to find swimming, soccer or Disney Channel nearly as exciting anymore. Those pieces of me are frozen in time for him, untouched and unfinished.
What would it be like to see him now after seven years of his absence? What would I tell him about? Would we finally be able to really know each other, more than just favorite colors and songs? Would he be sitting with me right now as I brainstorm my next article?
That once-overpowering feeling of dread now reminds me of how impermanent life is. How lucky I am to experience an abundance of joy in my life.
I do not dread that feeling now. It gently pulls me back to what matters. Not only do I have one life to live but so does everyone else. It may seem counterintuitive, but that feeling I felt for the first time as a 12-year-old girl has formed me into the young woman I am today.
I am no longer an envious, selfish or angry person. I am joyful. I am kind. I find joy in my sorrows because I know they will lead me to more joy. I love others even when they don’t love me because I know that everyone gets that same gut-wrenching, stomach-twisting feeling that I do.
Grief is not easy. Initially, I harbored anger and resentment. I would not believe anyone who said that there is a good result of the tragedy that had taken place, because how could something so painful ever lead to something good?
It takes time, but in changing your outlook, you can change the outcome of how you react to hard things.
We must appreciate the good in the bad and dwell in those feelings. See the joy in darkness. That joy can shine a new light in your life — sometimes, that light is the thing that keeps you going.
Riley Altiere is a freshman journalism major from Alpharetta, Ga.
