Life Rafts
Learning to authentically find joy while I grieve.
A few announcements before we dig in -
Authentic by Alexa is now on sale on Etsy!
This is the guide I wish I'd had while navigating the many winding roads of my life.
I created "Authentic by Alexa" to make my signature coaching process accessible to as many people as possible. I use it in my coaching, to help people cultivate more authenticity in their lives.
Inside the guide, you'll find three sections full of journal prompts, visualization exercises, and personal anecdotes. 113 pages total.
Authenticity Tuesdays
We have been having the best conversations, and there’s still time for you to join us! We meet on Tuesdays from 8 - 9PM EST on Zoom. Totally free. Head to my instagram to check out some of our past discussion prompts, and email me at alexajordancoaching@gmail.com if you’d like to be added to the email list so that you can receive the link to join!
Finding Your Authentic Rhythm Workshop this Saturday —POSTPONED.
Nataly and I have made the difficult decision to postpone the workshop this Saturday. It was not an easy choice, but it is the best way to honor our own authentic rhythms at this time - so that we can bring you the workshop that you deserve in the future! If you’ve already purchased a ticket, we’ll be in touch to discuss refunds and future dates.
Okay, that’s it! On with the essay.
If there was ever a week for me to skip an essay, it would probably be this one. It would be a perfectly acceptable thing to do, given the busyness and emotional upheaval I’ve experienced in these first two weeks of 2024.
And yet, I didn’t even consider not writing to you today. Because I really do come to the page to process and sort through all my feelings. I don’t write these weekly essays out of some kind of obligation. I write here to carve out space for my wild cozy free self. Just like Glennon did when she started Momastery, and We Can Do Hard Things. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually said it out loud - but she is truly the inspiration behind this blog. (If you’ve been here a while, you know that my love for Glennon runs deep.)
And so it’s time to honor my wild cozy free self again, in all her rawness and glory. This week, she needs this space more than ever.
I’ll let my representative self set the scene a little, before handing it over to wild cozy free Alexa.
I spent the weekend up at my alma mater, Vassar College, with alumni, parents, and most importantly, current sophomores. It was my fourth time being a mentor at a wonderful conference called Sophomore Career Connections. It is without a doubt my favorite program at Vassar.
Vassar’s Sophomore Career Connections is designed to introduce second-year students to the vast array of career options available to liberal arts graduates. Drawing on the expertise of one of Vassar’s very best career resources—our alums and parent mentors—we hope to help students complement their liberal arts education with industry-specific knowledge, tap into the extensive Vassar network, and focus on their professional development in a safe space. Making these connections will serve sophomores well as they begin to consider not only summer internship options, but life beyond Vassar.
This past weekend marked the 10th anniversary of SCC, as we call it. I was so incredibly honored to help kick off the weekend by leading a workshop called “Uncovering YOU: The Road to Self Discovery.” I met some of the most vulnerable, courageous, creative, introspective, brilliant 19 and 20-year-olds.
Later on, I got to learn from Ilyse Hogue, Senior Fellow at New America, former President and CEO of NARAL Pro-Choice America, and a proud Vassar alum. She spoke about the importance of curiosity and the gift of a liberal arts education. She distinguished the difference between the words, complex and complicated. She opened her talk with my new favorite sentence ever: “I’m a walking poster for the liberal arts experience, my career has made no sense.”
I went on to spend the week in a mix of panels and networking receptions. The days were jam-packed, and yet I wish we had had even more time to connect with each other. I was physically exhausted by Sunday, and also completely inspired by all of the wonderful conversations I’d had.
I’ve been talking a lot about authenticity, and I do feel that I’m starting to bring more and more of my authentic self into my outer world, as I encourage people to do in my new guide, Authentic by Alexa.
And yet, I also found myself internally questioning my authenticity all weekend long, because I chose to not be transparent about something heavy I was dealing with.
This past Friday, I found out that a loved one had passed away. I might talk about who this person was to me, eventually, but for now, I’ve chosen to protect their privacy - along with that of those who are mourning him.
I am well aware that I could have shared what was going on. I know that everyone would have been comforting and understanding. I know that I could have altered my plans if necessary.
And yet - I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to hold space for my grief and participate in this event I had been looking forward to.
I wanted to be my authentic self without forcing myself to talk about my deep, intimate, personal grief in a public setting.
And so that’s what I did.
What I did is not prescriptive. I am not giving out advice or suggestions on how to handle grief. I’m just sharing how I dealt with mine.
I’m learning that authenticity does not always require transparency. Something I’m learning a lot about from our discussions at Authenticity Tuesdays.
There were times this weekend when I felt guilty for having a good time; for laughing and smiling.
But I’m also realizing that holding onto joy amidst excruciating grief is like clinging to a life raft in a stormy sea.
These are not the kinds of life rafts that will deliver me to shore. There is no shore. The sea is my home, for now at least.
When the life raft comes, I have to hold on as the waves continue to rage on. If I don’t cling to that life raft, I myself will drown.
I have to look for the life rafts and recognize them when they come to me. They’re essential.
And excusing myself to go cry when I’m in the middle of a conversation and just out of nowhere have the thought, “Oh my god, everyone I love is going to die.” — that’s essential too.
I also always come back to the idea that we can’t numb pain without numbing joy. The capacity for joy and grief expand together. They’re interlinked. I wouldn’t be feeling the depth of this grief if the person I’m mourning hadn’t brought me so much joy.
And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were talking to me now
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still around
What died didn’t stay dead
What died didn’t stay dead
You’re alive in my head
In a reading group guide for her book, In 5 Years, Rebecca Serle writes
I am also fascinated by scientific data that is suggesting that the future in fact influences the present. Perhaps the choices we are making are not building a moldable future, but are informed by one that has already solidified.
I thought about that quote while listening to the Mary Poppins Returns soundtrack in my kitchen a few days ago, while I made some soup. The first meal I’d had to cook for myself in several days. I didn’t realize what a gift it was to be nurtured and taken care of so intentionally up at Vassar all weekend. (An even bigger gift, my favorite restaurant, Twisted Soul, catered many of our meals.)
I stood there listening to one of my favorite songs in the world, Trip A Little Light Fantastic, and thought to myself, “Maybe I was obsessed with this movie in my early 20s, so that I would instinctively know to turn to this music that I know so well, years and years later.”
And if you're deep inside a tunnel
When there is no end in sight
Well just carry on until the dawn
It's darkest right before the light
I wrote the essay below a few weeks ago - and I highly encourage you to go read the section I wrote about grief.
I especially encourage you to read this essay if any part of you is thinking “wow, Alexa is just telling us to bright-side our way out of grief and put on a smile.”
That couldn’t be farther from what I’m trying to say.
At the end of that piece, I wrote,
Both/And. Always Both/And. Hold space for all of your emotions this season. The laughter you can’t contain, and the grief you can’t box up and tie with a bow.
Sometimes, the idea of joy feels comical. There are no life rafts in sight and I’m just treading water in a stormy sea, looking for the slightest bit of hope to cling onto.
And so when that life raft comes, I have learned to hop on.
I used to think that living joyfully was somehow disrespectful, to my loved one who is gone. And now I know that the opposite is true.
My life feels like this fragile, tiny, urgent, and huge thing. And I know that I have to live it fully, for as long as I have the privilege of being on this earth.
On that note - I’ll leave you with a metaphor that I’ve developed, that has helped me start to navigate this season. Or maybe it’s not a metaphor, but a personification? I’m not entirely sure. I’m sure one of my english major friends can tell me what the right literary device is.
If you are grieving the loss of a loved one, or supporting a loved one through their own loss, I hope that this perspective helps a bit.
*written right after finding out that my loved one was in hospice, a week before they passed.
Grief arrived on my doorstep, on a slow Saturday afternoon, on the first weekend of the year.
Grief’s arrival was not as poetic, as I made it sound in that last sentence.
She did not knock, or bother to ring the bell.
Grief barged in, loudly and unannounced.
She sucked up all the air in the room, and immediately made herself a home in me.
I treat her like a visitor. I’ve always been a good hostess.
I give Grief all of my attention, and try to make her comfortable. It would be wrong to focus on anything else, while she’s visiting.
I am polite to her. I keep tidying her things, as she continues to make a mess of my house. I try to stay organized. I hold onto the structure I maintained before she arrived. I feebly look forward to returning to my normal life when she leaves.
I wonder when she’ll leave. She never said how long she was staying.
Or maybe she did. She moves so chaotically. It’s hard to keep up with her.
I spend a few days tip-toeing around and trying to accommodate her as best I can. I gaze resentfully at the corner of my house I’ve graciously given to this unannounced houseguest, who is overstaying her welcome.
I keep trying to work up the courage to ask her, “When will you finally leave?”
And suddenly, in a moment of swift and sharp clarity, it hits me.
She is not leaving.
Grief is not a visitor.
She is not a long-term house guest.
She is the new roommate I never asked for.
I could probably try to evict her. I could box up all of her messy things and point her toward the door.
But she would take all of my love with her too. She has somehow attached herself to all of the love that I hold.
"Grief is the price I must pay, for the love that runs through me.
This grief will last as long as my love does. Forever.
Grief is here to stay.
She is not an unwelcome houseguest.
She is a permanent resident, who moved in with no warning. And yet she belongs here, inside me.
Grief and I must learn to live together, one day at a time.
There is no going back to my life before she arrived.
There is no going back to my life before grief.
She has forever changed me. She is making a home in me.
When she first arrived, all I could see was the sadness she brought along with her. The heavy, aching mess of emotions that she sprawled across my home.
But as she continues to unpack, I notice tiny chests of joy. I am tempted to ignore them and devote my attention to the sadness. But I am learning that joy is rare and that I must give my attention to it too.
There will always be more sadness and pain. Grief brought an endless amount with her. And new boxes arrive each day.
So I must try to hold onto the joy when I can. I cannot let all the joy get lost in this ocean of pain that grief has brought with her.
Some days, I fear grief might flood my home. It feels like she is here to take me down and anchor me to the ocean floor forever.
Some days, I find a life vest to rest on.
And it’s hard — resting. I live in fear of the next crashing wave that will knock me off my feet again.
Bracing myself for those waves is futile. Nothing can prepare you for the waves of grief.
Those waves will continue to come. The sea will never fully settle.
I could become the best swimmer in the world, and the waves would still find a way to knock me down. There is no protection to keep you from these waves, except for numbing perhaps. A tool that I no longer have at my disposal, and do not wish to employ.
And so I try to rest on my life vest.
And half smile at the seagulls.
I’m startled by the sound of my own laughter now and again. It is such a rare sound these days.
Grief is not an unwelcome visitor.
She is my new roommate.
She is here to stay.
I thought about giving her the house and keys and moving out myself.
But where would I go?
Anywhere I’d swim, she’d find me.
I am my home.
And grief has made a home in me.
There is nowhere I can hide from her.
Grief, a relentless ocean with unpredictable tides.
Grief, a sadistic funhouse full of sharp twists and turns.
Grief, the roommate I never asked for.
She is here to stay.
Somehow, so am I.
She is not easy to live with.
I don’t think that she’ll ever be.
“Grief is the price that we pay for the love we’ve had. As long as we’re alive, we get to feel it.”*
Somehow, I’m alive.
Learning to live with grief.
The roommate I never wanted, who I wish had never come at all.
She is here to stay.
And somehow, so am I.
The depth of this testimonial is felt almost as deeply as the waves that you find yourself in. Thank you for your courage, Alexa. It is profoundly moving.