Grieving Through Life Events
I fell in love with Nashville the first time I visited. At first, it was the uninhibited way Broadway embraces its country music history. The live music. The cowboy hats. Then, the way the city feels like a small town, just with more to do. Over the course of five years, I visited every chance I could. It became a joke in my family; Morgan’s always planning her next trip to Nashville.
In 2019, I finally got the opportunity to move here. It was my biggest dream, one I had held in my heart for what felt like forever, come true. And last week, I bought a condo, officially putting down roots in a much more permanent way. It’s been incredibly exciting but also a heavy and overwhelming one.
When I moved into my first apartment after college, I did research with my two roommates, and we narrowed down our list to a few choices. We called each place, planned tours, and debriefed together after visiting each complex. When we decided on an apartment, I called my parents to have them look at the place online and make sure it seemed like a good choice. Being financially independent was a new feeling, and I still wanted them to approve of my decisions. I remember that after my dad looked at the place he called me to tell me how proud he was that I was able to handle it all on my own.
This happened many times after that. I’ve moved around a lot since then, and each time, I’ve gotten better at the process. But the most fun part by far was always getting opinions from my mom and dad. They helped me think through questions about what furniture might fit and whether or not I wanted a big closet or a big living room. We would dream together of all the ways I could decorate the place. When I moved in, there were FaceTime tours with my dad. My mom usually came with me to help me unpack boxes, and we’d watch the Twilight movies at night while eating tacos.
I found an apartment in Nashville on April 27. That night, I stayed at my Dad’s house, and he helped me figure out how to fit my furniture into my tiny 450 sq ft. studio. We looked at the pictures of the place online over and over again. He was so excited to picture me there. But ten days later, he died.
I made that move still in shock from grief. But I still had my mom. We FaceTimed for hours while I unpacked. Whenever we talked, she would get giggly and repeat “I can’t believe you’re in Nashville!” She was planning to come visit when I got settled into my job. And then she died, too.
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All of these things were missing when I bought my condo. The only reason I could afford the down payment was because of my mom’s life insurance. The entire experience was only happening because my mom died. There’s a special guilt that comes with an inheritance.
I couldn’t run prices by my parents. I couldn’t ask my dad about homeowners insurance. Even though I have people I can rely on for these things, the whole experience was a reminder that my life continues to move forward without my parents. They will miss so many events, big and small.
The day my dad died, I remember telling my brother-in-law, who lost his mom when he was in his 20s, that I was scared I would be sad at every exciting event for the rest of my life. In his typical even-keeled fashion, he said, “to some extent, you will.” I glared at him, because that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. He continued to say, “There will always be moments when you look around and realize that your parents aren’t there. It will always be sad.”
It’s true. To be honest, part of me wants to stay 26 forever, the age I was when my parents were still alive. But I’m 28 and a homeowner, and time keeps moving. My parents are still gone. They will always be gone. I’ll do a million more exciting things and share them with incredible people. Just not my mom and dad.
You hear so many clichés about grief. But one of the worst is that time will heal things. Grief may heal, but it leaves a tender scar. One that you never forget is there. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but when something touches it, it hurts just as bad as the day you got it.
People also say, “You never get over it, but you learn to move on.” We move on out of necessity, because the world doesn’t stop when a person dies. Everyone else, everything else, continues regardless of your pain. Yes, you move on. But sometimes–when we’re buying a house or switching to flannel sheets in the winter–we see that part of us remains stuck in the past, in the exact moment when we found out our loved one died. We leave a part of ourselves behind. That’s the price of moving on.
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When I lived in Huntsville, and I hated my job, seeing the Batman building as I drove into Nashville gave me an immediate peace. Even then, I knew this place was home. Now, I just have to look out my bedroom window and that same skyline greets me. I don’t even have to get out of bed.
I will always be thankful that my parents got to know that my Nashville dream came true. They may not be able to see all the ways this city has changed me and helped me grow, but they were there when the dream came true. That is enough. Because it has to be.