Learning how to "be"

My mother was like a trough in which I placed the burdens of my life. Mom had a way of seeing through my “I’m fine” and getting to the core of whatever frivolous worry I’d allowed to take over my mind.  When at the root, Mom would pray for me and speak to whatever the circumstance. It never failed that no matter how “big” the situation, hearing Mom say, “Kiya, everything is going to be alright” felt like soothing ointment to my soul. If she said it, I believed it.
 
Among her soothing quotes was one she would often say in times of trouble, “Kiya, it’s not a death.” She compared every situation to death to expose the truth that no matter what I was facing, there was someone facing much worse; that no matter what I was facing, there was someone saying a final goodbye.
 
Comparing everyday trials and tribulations to someone facing the death of a loved one has a way of shrinking everyday worries to minimal concerns. Just think, “He doesn’t like me” compared to “I need to write my mother’s obituary”; “I can’t believe he/she did that” compared to “I will never feel the embrace of my parent again” or “I don’t know how my bills are going to be paid” compared to “I watched my parents’ casket go into the ground.” For me, death was always the “worst” case scenario that made any situation I was facing seem "not so bad"…only this time it was death and it was bad.
 
The death of my parents aroused a pain that I didn’t know existed- it stung, it cut, it bruised, it lingered, it burned, it suffocated and it hurt…all at the same time. There were times I cried inconsolably and times that I couldn’t cry at all; times when I felt the weight of the world on my back and times when I was numb from all the pain. The up and down of polarizing emotions was exhausting and all I could say was “It is a death.”
 
With the whirlwind of emotions I knew I needed more than the "ear" of devoted friends, but I didn't have the courage to go to counseling right away. You see,  prior to Mom’s death I had a very hypocritical relationship with the idea of counseling- I’d encourage others to receive counseling, but I felt “ashamed” going on my own. Counseling was something for people who needed “help” and as a minister surely God was all the help I needed, right?
 
I will never forget the first time I called to make a counseling appointment. The administrative assistant answered the phone and through tears, a shaky voice and a huge gulp in my throat I said, “My name is Kiya Ward and I just lost my mom and I need help making sense of everything.” I was at my most vulnerable point and honestly that was about as much as I could get out without completely losing it over the phone.
 
Within the same week, I met the woman who would be my therapist. She was a beautiful African American woman with chocolate skin and almond-colored eyes. She had a smile that could light up a room and warmth that only a mother could exude. She had a tone in her voice that commanded one’s attention and an elegance that reminded me so much of my mom. To this day I count my therapist among my greatest gifts from God as she normalized counseling by helping me understand that although God was the root of my help, He also used vessels (i.e.: licensed professionals) to strengthen and encourage me on my restorative journey toward healing. Most importantly, my therapist taught me how to “be.”
 
Learning how to “be” has been one of the most challenging (yet fundamental) parts of my healing process. You see, I am my mother’s daughter (and my grandmother’s granddaughter), which means that I’ve been bred with the highest level of lady-like decorum. Unfortunately, this type of decorum doesn’t lend space for one to “be.” The lady-like decorum that I embraced focused more on the “appearance” of emotions than the “reality” of them; it meant keeping in feelings that could be perceived as weak and always remembering that a smile and appropriate attire conceals most emotions from the human eye. Shifting this ideology didn’t come over night, but I soon learned what it meant to “be.”

I learned that to “be” meant breaking the shackles of societal expectations of “lady-like” decorum surrounding my emotions. For me, it meant that if I didn’t feel like being around people, I wasn’t rude for saying “no”; that even if I had 18 missed calls, 13 voicemails and 43 text messages to which I did not respond, I was not impolite; I wasn’t “weak” for crying, I wasn't "ungrateful" for being sad, and I wasn’t “rude” for being anti-social. I was simply learning to “be."

​Learning how to “be” is the way that I give myself permission to unapologetically grieve and to be human in the face of such great loss; learning how to “be” is the nakedness in my intimate relationship with God and my reality with the world.

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