Moving Forward, One Bite at a Time

Someone dear to me reached out the other day, overwhelmed. Work has been tough for longer than expected, a child’s injury at sports practice will require surgery and, he told me, a much-longed-for weekend getaway had to be postponed because of that. “Last night I woke up around 4:30 a.m. and couldn’t really fall back asleep, just tossed and turned. I had a million thoughts going through my mind,” he said. “There’s so much on my plate.”

We’ve all been there, awoken by our own worries, haunted by the overfilled plates in front of us, wondering how we might possibly get through it all. I remember one time after my husband died, when I found myself in this exact state of mind and reached out to a friend for help. “How do you eat an elephant?” the friend asked me. I had never heard the question, had no idea it meant something other than its literal meaning, which is how I received it. I thought to myself: Who eats elephants and why the heck does it matter?

One bite at a time.

One piece of the challenge at a time.

One slice of the problem before the next.

Set tiny goals. Confront what’s ahead not as a mountain to climb, an arduous task whose reward might seem unattainable so much we have to work for it. Confront it as a runner would navigate an obstacle course, where the only hurdle to conquer is the hurdle right ahead.

I don’t know if the lesson my friend taught me would have landed the same way if I’d heard it in the before times — before Death made me a widow; before Death made me a single parent; before Death placed the sole responsibility for all bills, decisions and mistakes on me. Death forced me to make a choice and I chose to move forward and moving forward requires the humility to listen closely your body and your heart, and to listen closely to the words of those who care for you, and to absorb from them what serves you, and to embrace the moment as an opportunity for growth.

Humility is another of the lessons that Death has taught me. That person dear to me, someone who has experienced grief from a loss that isn’t death, is humble by nature — an innate quality. And it’s because he’s humble and because he trusts me that he shared his disquiet with me. And it’s because he shared that I was able to do for him what my friend did for me. I helped him break things down. I helped turn apprehension into planning.

I didn’t write these past couple of weeks because I first had to chew and digest the bite I took out of an elephant that appeared before me unannounced, though impossible to ignore. I’m now ready for what’s next. Bring it on.

With love and purpose always,

Fernanda