“There is still space for light to pour through in a thousand unexpected ways.” — Morgan Harper Nichols
It was the last week of August, 2020. After a heavy six months of pandemic and everything that’s come along with it, saying I was looking forward to finally taking a real break is an understatement. Even if that break was just driving up to Lake Tahoe with my parents to spend all our time in a different house—at least I would feel some sweet relief with a change of scenery and a proper separation from work and the monotony.
But, a few days before we were scheduled to leave for our desperately needed vacation, we got a piece of devastating news that I still can’t believe is real.
I’m choosing not to reveal it because it’s something I want to hold close to me, but know that it meant we had to cancel our non-refundable Airbnb in the mountains and that I’m going to lose one of my biggest sources of joy, comfort, and love during a pandemic and global crisis.
In that moment of hearing the news—which came while I was still grieving over the life I had built for myself coming to a halt, processing my decision to let go of the apartment I loved so much and move home, and panicking over the growing wildfires surrounding my home in California—to put it bluntly, I felt like I had been stripped of everything.
In the following days, mostly spent watching “Catfish” in bed, I tried to think of something I could do during my week off work to still make it feel special.
And then, a message from a friend came with exactly what I needed: the idea to create a “personal retreat” for myself, along with suggestions of all my favorite self-care activities I can do while stuck at home as the skies filled with smoke.
I love retreats. They’re a gift I’ve started giving myself over the past couple of years that allow me to reset and process my pent-up thoughts and emotions. But I don’t have access to that right now, so why not recreate it for myself?
I put together a simple five-day schedule, and I mostly followed it. Every day began with a morning meditation (in bed), every afternoon a different activity, like drawing therapy, actual therapy, writing, gentle YouTube yoga, and a eucalyptus-scented bubble bath. For lunch, I DoorDashed sushi and milkshakes. On the last night, I cooked a new Persian recipe I’d been wanting to try, the fragrant cilantro, parsley, and dill wafting through the kitchen and covering my hands as I chopped.
Was it a perfect week that left me as refreshed as spending five days hiking in the mountains and eating my favorite nachos by the river? Of course not. A lot of difficult things happened. But what I learned is this: Even while I’m going through an intense period of grief and anxiety, I’m still able to lean into moments of good—I just have to be intentional about it.
My whole life, whenever I’m suffering, I have always slammed the door to any positive feelings completely shut. Everything is static; I don’t want to feel good, as if laughing at something or enjoying a moment with a friend would somehow negate and invalidate all the despair I’m feeling. But this year, my ability and willingness to do that has been shattered—it’s just not sustainable.
While it is absolutely okay to “not be okay,” it’s also okay to be open to and present in moments of unexpected pleasure, however fleeting they may be. These moments are crucial for keeping us afloat, lightening the load ever so slightly when it becomes too heavy to bear.
I try to look at it as a dance, flowing gracefully back and forth between grief and peace; knowing that with each step, the other one is on its way back soon. And accepting that.
Even when it feels like there isn’t any reason to, you are capable of feeling true contentment—and you’re allowed to. In fact, this year, I think we’re developing a greater capacity to be fully present in pockets of happiness, because we’re seeing firsthand how quickly it can be ripped away from us. We have to hold on tight.
For me, right now, that looks like easy week- and day-long personal retreats. Like really laughing when a friend sends me a funny video, or feeling loved when they send me a gift. Like basking in gratitude for being with my family or breathing in clean air. Like dancing and lip-syncing to “Do You Believe in Magic” alone in my room late at night just because I’m moved to.
What does it look like for you?