Are we really doing fucking motivational quotes now, Amber?

I'm not making it a habit but I'll make an exception this time.

I fucking hate cliches.

I’m the curmudgeon that scrolls through my Instagram feed and sees the saccharine quotes about love and hope and whatever else and I reflexively roll my eyes and think “fuck this toxic, sunshine-y bullshit”.

But deep down, I think it’s because I’m pissed that I can’t relate to a person who finds the silver fucking lining in every hardship. I’ve struggled with pessimism all my life and I blame my late fucking Swedish, stoic, pain-in-my-ass emotionally unavailable father whom I loved with all of my fucking heart for that…gift? Curse? Whatever.

I know it’s been a minute since you’ve heard from me. But I’m going to ask you for a fucking hall pass because my parents are dead. Both of them. That probably wouldn’t have convinced my high school composition teacher that I deserved to miss class. But I’m a fucking adult now and it seems like a reasonable excuse.

2023 was, by all accounts, a really fucking awful year. My mom died in March after a long battle with COPD and heart failure, and I was her primary caregiver through hospice which was both an honor and a torture. I won’t lie; her death was fucking awful. Like the kind of death no one should have to witness let alone endure. I’m grateful she’s at peace now but that experience will fucking haunt me for the rest of my days.

Then just as I was getting a handle on shit, I got the news in July that my dad had esophageal cancer. He was dead by December and once again, I stepped in to help navigate the hospice care and last months of his life because they too were fucking awful for myriad reasons and I flew home on December 6th, two days after his death, a shell of myself. Hollow, empty, and mostly in deep fucking disbelief that I was an orphan.

This was all on the fucking heels of a dramatically fucktangular year at work with dickhead problem children that made my life hell (being a people manager is AWESOME, she said through gritted teeth) and a really difficult economy and advertising industry (which, as it turns out, is shitty for people who sell ads for a living).

Then I wandered smack into a hefty dose of midlife complicated situationship romantic heartbreak to round it all out and well, dear reader, I keep coming back to a fucking inspo quote that seems to sum it all up and I hate myself for liking it.

“Not all storms come to disrupt your life. Some come to clear your path.”

Goddamn it if this stupid thing hasn’t been somewhat of an emotional anchor through all of this bullshit. Because I need to believe something through the oily weight of anger and regret and sadness in my gut.

The better part of my last half decade has really been defined by either caretaking of others or trying hard to give and give and give to the people I love. But the problem with that—even with noble intent—is that there’s only so much to go around. So that dazed, empty, “how the fuck did I get here” fog that you end up in makes you feel like the time slipped by without your knowledge or consent, you’re drained completely of all the things, and all you got was this lousy fucking emotional t-shirt that reads “48 and Lost”.

So I’ve been slowly trying to pick up pieces.

As you can see by Exhibit A, I’m making a feeble attempt at writing again. I haven’t just had writer’s block for the past year, I’ve had a fully fucking stone prison in my mind where the words were committed with no possibility of parole. (And seriously fuck those artists who can create through the worst times in their lives, you’re all fucking prodigies or aliens or both and I lovehate you with all my soul. Looking at you Taylor.)

I also picked up my long-forsaken flute and joined a local wind ensemble because I have missed playing for many, many years and finally told myself that I deserved to experience that even if I had a lot of rust to knock off, emotionally and on my fancy-ass professional flute that Gramma Ruthie bought me in music school.

I put Mom and Gramma on the mantle and I decorate their urns for seasonal holidays and I don’t care if you think that’s fucking morbid or disrespectful. They would have cackled with joy and laughter to be donning the light-up bunny ears for easter. And it’s almost time for Memorial Day stars and stripes.

I haven’t managed to find the gumption to get back to my healthy gym habit so I’m basically paying those fuckers $250 a month to keep a spot warm in the locker room next to that zero-fucks lady who blowdries her hair stark naked every morning, singing to herself with no music or headphones. I’ll get back there eventually. Maybe. Throwing weights around is cathartic, but first you have to lift the weight of a heavy heart that somehow won’t let your feet move, either.

I want to believe that stupid fucking instagram quote. I want to believe that this sweeping, raging, monumental storm that has washed through my life for the last couple of years had purpose and meaning. I want to believe that the purpose was to clear the path in front of me, to shake me by the shoulders and say “Amber, look, there is possibility ahead.” I want to believe that maybe this time is for me, that there is oxygen coming back into my lungs that doesn’t belong to anyone else but can fuel me to put a foot on the ground, and then another, and then another toward something. I don’t know what.

But I do know that what I need is to remember who I am. Me. What I love, what ignites my mind, what gives my soul that “fuck yes” energy where you practically vibrate with potential, how I want to show up in the world that isn’t just as someone else’s something. I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore. Maybe that’s the point.

I stood on a beach not long ago on vacation with my daughter, and the brine of the ocean air always feels and smells like salvation somehow. Like you can wash your insides clean and breathe out darkness and it just gets carried away on the tide like foam.

Being a blank slate feels scary as fuck. I feel raw, spent, and there are parts of my heart where the ache is persistent and impossible. But I think it might be the bruised little pulse that is trying to remind me that I am alive and that easing the ache, like so many little midlife pains, requires getting up and moving around and through and onward.

So I guess I’ll keep the fucking cliche. I’ll thank the stupid storm and the stupid instagram girlies for making their Canva template so I can save it on my fucking phone. I’ll try to tuck Paul’s pessimism on the shelf next to the little buddha statue of his that I stole from his cabinet and try on that hopefulness and optimism the kids keep talking about.

I’ve always loved a storm. The rage and power during, the peace and calm after.

Hurricane Amber has come and gone. The worst of it, anyway. And dawn is breaking.

So I’m going to go stand out there, empty and afraid, and let it light my way forward.

It’s good to be with you again.