My friend Jane had the coolest book launch party ever. Her memoir, Spirit Traffic brings readers into the saddle of her motorcycle as she rides cross-country with her college age son and husband – before returning home to an empty nest. In addition to the expected reading of enticing excerpts from her book, Jane included a Moth-style storytelling hour with the topic, What Adventure Looks Like to Me. While driving to the event, I mapped out my adventure story and hoped I’d have the nerve to tell it – but lucky for me – the slip of paper with my name on it wasn’t picked. Today however, in honor of my mother and the fact that none of us would be here without our mother, I want to tell my Mothering Adventure Story.
Part One
Giving birth to my first child at 33 years old was hands down the biggest adventure of my life. While pregnant, I marveled at women with babies: they did it, so I figured I could too. But after 40 hours of riding the waves of labor my planned home birth transitioned to the hospital, and I had my doubts. Once in the birthing room however, a squatting bar provided me the position I needed and a few pushes later, our robust baby was born. But our hope for home’s comfort was dashed again when an ambulance carried our newborn – who had swallowed some meconium (the medical term for baby poop) – to the big hospital an hour away. There, we hovered around the healthiest baby in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), until three days later she was cleared to transition back to the hospital closer to home to be treated for jaundice.
Closer, but still not home. That overnight pushed us to a breaking point after the third unsuccessful attempt to insert an IV into our newborn’s tiny veins. My husband and I looked deeply into each other’ eyes before we signed the papers. Trusting raw parental instinct, we took our four-day old baby home AMA – against medical advice. Finally, we had our home and our baby and each other. Intact. The deepest peace enveloped us as the days and weeks passed, confirming that we had made the right decision. Four and a half years later, our son was born – at home – completing our family constellation.
Part Two
Two decades later, our grandbaby’s birth ushered in an entirely different kind of adventure – just as I was giving birth to a book. The early days of the pandemic created an opportunity for me to complete my manuscript while at the same time, my mother in law’s quality of life at her assisted living facility plummeted. Donning PPE (personal protective equipment), my husband rescued her in a swat team like mission and she came to live with us. We received a crash course on Alzheimer’s and pivoted from our brief empty nest, to life with a feisty 92-year-old and a disgruntled college student who was banned by Covid from the campus life he craved. Despite all this, my writing was culminating in exquisite symmetry: my book launch was scheduled for seven years to the day of when I exited the everyday cult my book detailed. A week later, my daughter gave birth to a healthy and gorgeous baby – but a week after that, she was plagued with postpartum complications. Thus, the second mothering adventure began in earnest.
Cradling a week-old infant, caring for a new mom in postpartum crisis, and attending to a 92-year-old with Alzheimer’s became life’s razor-edge focus. My husband and I took turns with our son-in-law “being strong” and our tasks clarified and focused. I stepped in beside my daughter. Our son-in-law, thankfully between jobs, cared for the baby. And my husband had his mom Suzanne – whose healthy-as-a-horse status was suddenly deteriorating. And the three of us caregivers, had each other. We were an extraordinary team, linked by forces of love, fear and fierce familial knowing that wove through each moment of each day, creating a tunnel of timeless, focused grace. With the help of doctors, nurses, and a cadre of caring friends we formed a collective nursery for the newborn, while his mama healed. Six weeks later, we buried Suzanne out in the field, as she wanted, in a grave filled with flowers.
Part Three
I remember how I was filled with wonderment and nervous excitement about becoming an author and a grandparent at the same time. I’m told that the first year after publishing is pivotal to the success of a book – that readings, events, social media, and keeping momentum after the launch is essential. Will I be able to maintain balance and show up for my family? I wondered. Today, when I look back at this past year, I feel awe and enormous gratitude for my family and see that I’ve emerged stronger, softer, more resilient. And I now know how to prioritize – or at least, when to drop the nonessential. In what I now refer to as our “three month family tunnel” I’d nearly forgotten my book. My second mothering adventure had taught me that a book is not as important as a real baby. I rest easy in my decision to prioritize my family last year – the fierce mama bear in me knows that I did what needed to be done, let the chips – and books – fall where they may. But in the letting go, something curious occurred in the months that followed.
In the dearth of book events, my focus turned to another novel project: #igotout. My passion for recovery from cultic abuse and furthering ethical leadership found a match there. The spark I had helped to kindle in October 2020 was forming into an amorphous organization centered around the hashtag movement. I rolled up my shirt sleeves and stepped in beside Lisa, the other cofounder, to do the work that needed to be done. We fostered dynamic alliances. We clarified the mission. We created guidelines. And through this time, I learned that my book, An Everyday Cult was helping people in their educational and healing process. I learned that my voice in the ‘cultiverse’ is one that is heard, appreciated and sometimes even needed. I knew none of this a year ago.
There’s a kind of freedom in not striving to prove myself – the way I did for eighteen years in the cult, constantly grasping for an unattainable goal. My efforts today revolve around doing what I love. I’ve learned to better trust the cycles of life and death and can stand more comfortably in my own shoes as a writer, a partner, mother, and grandmother. I have learned to trust when to say no to authority, when to keep a steady hand of support and when to let go of worldly goals. I bring these tools and more into my current adventure. The #igotout movement is really starting to heat up and my book is in the midst of a promotional campaign and upcoming book tours. But I will continue to hold my family in a steady gaze. It might be that I'm headed into my biggest adventure yet. I’m grateful for the practice I’ve had in learning how to ride life’s waves - how to get pounded by them occasionally and how to rise up and be ready for the next wave - that will come.
