There are bad weeks. We all have them.
There are good weeks. We all appreciate them. Particularly after a bad week.
And then there are those weeks that flay you raw emotionally and make you wish for bigger lungs so you can get more air. Because no matter how much you try, you just can't seem to get enough in to keep you lucid and focused.
This, this is one of those.
My little cousin, a beautiful, vibrant, funny, intelligent 32 year old passed away. Unexpectedly. In a bizarre accident.
She leaves behind two small children, children who will have to learn to navigate life without their birth mother from this point forward.
She leaves behind a cousin with whom she shared a birth date, which was always cool. Our personalities were similar in many ways, it's true.
Little Cousin worked hard at this life, and knew if she kept on asking the hard questions and doing the hard work she'd eventually be closer to where she wanted to be-in a stable, happy life with a partner she loved and who loved her back-unconditionally. She made a lot of progress in that regard, but hadn't quite found the ideal partner yet.
Every time I got to chat with her, which was usually at family functions (and they were always loud..our family functions always involve lots of amazing food, big, deep laughs, and at least one one scandal at any given moment, making for endlessly entertaining, though admittedly exhausting get togethers), we would talk about life, motherhood, making the right choices (or trying), and learning to accept and love who we are.
It always came down to our exchanging an enormous, long hug, and wishing each other well, for we knew we'd likely not see one another for awhile. Our lives were busy, and we just accepted that occasional, intense shared moments were how it would always be for us.
Now, we'll never see each other again, and you need to know Little Cousin that I am very proud of you. Always have been.
You are strong, you are funny, you are certainly destined for a calm, gentle, loving place.
And you will be deeply, deeply missed.
By us all.
There are good weeks. We all appreciate them. Particularly after a bad week.
And then there are those weeks that flay you raw emotionally and make you wish for bigger lungs so you can get more air. Because no matter how much you try, you just can't seem to get enough in to keep you lucid and focused.
This, this is one of those.
My little cousin, a beautiful, vibrant, funny, intelligent 32 year old passed away. Unexpectedly. In a bizarre accident.
She leaves behind two small children, children who will have to learn to navigate life without their birth mother from this point forward.
She leaves behind a cousin with whom she shared a birth date, which was always cool. Our personalities were similar in many ways, it's true.
Little Cousin worked hard at this life, and knew if she kept on asking the hard questions and doing the hard work she'd eventually be closer to where she wanted to be-in a stable, happy life with a partner she loved and who loved her back-unconditionally. She made a lot of progress in that regard, but hadn't quite found the ideal partner yet.
Every time I got to chat with her, which was usually at family functions (and they were always loud..our family functions always involve lots of amazing food, big, deep laughs, and at least one one scandal at any given moment, making for endlessly entertaining, though admittedly exhausting get togethers), we would talk about life, motherhood, making the right choices (or trying), and learning to accept and love who we are.
It always came down to our exchanging an enormous, long hug, and wishing each other well, for we knew we'd likely not see one another for awhile. Our lives were busy, and we just accepted that occasional, intense shared moments were how it would always be for us.
Now, we'll never see each other again, and you need to know Little Cousin that I am very proud of you. Always have been.
You are strong, you are funny, you are certainly destined for a calm, gentle, loving place.
And you will be deeply, deeply missed.
By us all.
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