I’m good. I’m okay. I’m crying on the floor.
Since September when I started my new role at the Collingwood Foundry, I’ve had hundreds of conversations with folks who’ve walked through the door of the coworking space.
After two years of lockdown, I was surprised by how many of them shared vulnerably about how they were, honestly opening up to a stranger about bouts of depression, struggles to make friends, and deeply personal work they were embarking on.
At the same time, I’ve been answering a lot of “how are yous” with “I’m good”.
On those same days, I’ve gone home, lay on the floor, and cried for hours.
On those same days, I’ve felt deeply alone and completely overwhelmed.
I have faced a seismic amount of change this year — moving across the country to a new town, getting a new job, getting engaged, buying a house, and planning a wedding — all on top of embarking on a Complex PTSD diagnosis.
But, I am good.
I am also engaged to a man who supports me with such steadiness. I’m living in a beautiful home and town filled with kind and inspiring people. I’m close to family and close to nature. And I’m doing work that fulfills me.
And I’m also crying on the floor. Filled with big, complex emotions. Grieving the life I left behind — friendships, memories, and habits that will never be the same. Grieving a version of childhood I’m just now realizing I never got. Feeling the weight of it all without my usual coping mechanisms or supports.
The point of me sharing all this is to say, hold space for one another. Hold more space than people necessarily ask for. Whether they’re sharing big and messy feelings or they’re sharing polite and neutral casualties. They are probably good. They are probably okay. And they are, probably sometimes, crying on the floor.
