Recently I learned that an old friend of mine had given birth to a healthy baby girl. She and her husband have been trying to conceive a child for many years, but were never able to. They were in the process of adopting when they learned they were pregnant with their daughter. I messaged her, despite the fact that our communication has been sporadic since I moved away, to let her know what deep and profound joy I felt to hear their good news.
Later in the week, I had an important conversation with a coworker. She mentioned her belief that things that are meant to be will be, and that everything happens for a reason. I can’t even count the number of times that I’ve heard that statement in the last decade. I’m more aware of it now as I’ve learned over time and through experience that I know this to be a completely false belief.
Sometimes things happen for no reason.
It’s insulting and tragic to say that suffering is “meant to be.” It’s not. Your loved ones don’t die “for a reason.” Devastating disasters, terrorism, and accidents aren’t “meant to be.” We do not live in a universe that intentionally creates tragedy to make us suffer. That’s not something I simply believe; I know it to be true. My mother did not suffer a debilitating brain aneurism because it would serve a greater purpose. That’s bullshit.
Before you write me off as a complete pessimist, please understand that while I do not believe in the phrase “everything happens for a reason,” I do believe that it is up to us to create purpose in suffering. It isn’t inherent, and individuals who are never able to overcome their tragedies are proof of that. Creating purpose in suffering takes intention, bravery, introspection, and resilience.
For many years I have been writing about two distinct places – “before” and “after”. Anyone who has personally suffered a tragic experience knows these places well, and once you realize they exist, there will be no changing the fact that “before” and “after” will be a part of how you mark time for the rest of your life.
I have a mother who knew me long before I was born. She told me many times that she knew someday she would have a daughter and her name would be Kate. She instilled in me courage and compassion. She taught me to kick ass and to understand that I can do anything in the world that I want to do, especially because I’m a woman. She led by example and propelled me through my childhood with graceful energy. She looked me in my eyes and told me that I matter, and she carved out a place for me in this world that I continue to make my own.
I’ve learned over many years to find comfort in remembering “before” and understanding that I’ll never live there again. The goodness of “before” will never make everything that propelled us into “after” okay. However, I’ve created a purpose out of this suffering that allows me to know that that goodness is enough to stretch from each corner of my life, from beginning to end. She has loved me enough to last many lifetimes, and I will never exist in a place where I don’t feel her love.
My desperate wish for every little girl in this world is that she has a mother who is aware of the magic that exists in their relationship. I hope that those little girls are loved so deeply by mothers who knew them before they were born, that that love carries them through whatever brings them into “after” as it has for me.
***
You coached me with my homework, rejoiced
in my small triumphs and prepared me to confront the enemy,
tapping your umbrella against my fifth grade teacher’s desk
to punctuate your firm demand for justice. I didn’t recognize
your subtle power that led me through blind, airless caves,
your quiet elegance that taught me dignity – nor could I know
the wind that bore him high into the sunlight
emanated from your breath. I didn’t want your journey,
rebelled against your sober ways.
But I have walked through my own shadows and, like you,
transcended glitter. I have learned that I am source and substance of a different kind of light.
Now when they say I look like you and tell me
that I have deepened to your wisdom, softened
to your easy grace, I claim my place with honor
in that court of dusky queens whose strength and beauty
invented suns that others only borrow. And Mother,
I am glad to be your child.
excerpt from Reluctant Light
Naomi Long Madgett
Detroit Poet Laureate
Marci says
Ahhhh this made me cry! So well written! She would be so proud to see who you have become. I love this and you so much!!
Raeanne says
What a beautiful piece of writing! I loved the line “creating purpose in suffering takes intention, bravery, introspection, and resilience.” YES!