Aftermath

In September 2022, a year-and-a-half after Mom’s death, I stood in the basement that housed my business, Heart Path Story Coaching, from its opening in April 2019 until now. It is where Mom confessed she should have never made me president of the family. It is where I met with my earliest clients and art journaled with family and friends. It is where I celebrated the final New Year’s Eve with my siblings and Mom, welcoming 2021 with creativity and curiosity amidst all the unknown that was to come.

This space was kind to me. I asked for and received it after noticing it sitting empty beneath Mom’s office. Mom, Dad, and I met for story work weekly in exchange for its use. Now it was for sale, along with my parents’ house next door, and I had to find a new location.

After packing and labeling all of the boxes, I began flipping tables, collapsing them, leaning them against the wall to await the move. My mind thought back, pondering this year of firsts.

The days and months following Mom’s death were not as I expected. Her death brought a clarity that I had not known. I did not realize how much she held, managed, and maintained until she was gone. I was unaware that she was the glue keeping traditions together, the tether keeping Dad connected to the town where they lived for over 30 years. 

I assumed life would go on as it had before, that Dad and I would find a new normal, that there would be some sort of settling. However, Dad and I never settled into a new Thursday routine. Occasionally, if he was in town and it was Thursday, I would go over for breakfast, but there was a different dynamic now. He was caught up in his own grief management, leaving no room or curiosity for mine. 

There came a wave of turbulent change, leaving me confused and spinning and realizing that a heavy dose of wishful thinking had sustained me.

Somehow I thought if only I could arrange all of the circumstances, then I would finally get what I always wanted. I would have parents who saw me for me and not for what I could do for them. I thought that if only I was there for them, then they would be there for me.

It was jarring to learn secondhand that Dad planned to sell the houses and move out of the area. I felt sad and lonely, missed and unseen. Yet, oddly, I also felt that this is what had always been true. I worked so hard to get what I needed and still was overlooked. 

“There’s nothing for me here,” Dad said one day before his move. 

That hurt since I had consciously stayed close in the same town to be near him and Mom, to be helpful and supportive to them in their work. I realized that by doing so, I missed a large chunk of my own life trying to help them with theirs. It was a painful place to land.

My life felt flipped. I was angry at being dislocated and moved against my will, even though it was something that I had been considering before being forced to evacuate. I was not ready yet, and I felt the familiar feeling of being used and cast aside for something better. I scrambled to find new office space for meeting in person with local clients now that things were opening up post-pandemic. I began the search and discovered a beautiful, affordable location downtown.

My brother, the other local, who packed Dad up for his move out of state as thoroughly as he tucked Mom into the ground, came after dark one night to help me move the flipped tables to my new office space. It was the only time that worked for him to help. He, Steve, and I carried the tables, along with furniture and boxes, up the basement steps to the waiting trailer.

There was a new feeling beginning to grow. It was one of being held in the midst of all that was being flipped around me. Under cover of night, we parked the trailer in the loading zone across the street from the entrance to my new building, less than a mile from my old space. I took out fresh keys and unlocked the main door, propping it to begin carrying items across the street to the waiting elevator.

I moved from basement level to the fourth floor. In the midst of heartache was hope, and though I was missed in many ways by my earthly father, I was never missed by the one in heaven. I felt lifted up by the God who sees, my heavenly father, who does exceedingly, abundantly above and beyond, who brings life from death, and who invites me to consider that maybe in this flipping of tables, all was being made right.

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Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her partner of 31 years, four of their eight children, and six fur and feather babies. Two precious grandchildren bring deep joy and delight. Julie is a lover of stories and words. She serves clients, both in person and virtually, through Heart Path Story Coaching, offering a creative space of kindness, curiosity, and Story Work. Writing and Art Journaling are key elements of her process.