Stronger, Apart: Together, Broken
“Everything has a destination, and what we let go of, finds a home. Allowing things to be as they are, offers new hopes for both you and them. A beautiful woman might be freer, and more creative, when left alone. And we must live with that.”
On December 15th, I drove through Tampa to Hyde Park, where one of the LifePath Hospice offices was located, to help stuff envelopes with letters for the families of those who’ve passed away after having spent time in hospice homes. 8000 flyers are sent out throughout the year, each going to an individual who’s lost their loved one– letting them know about upcoming support in terms of grief or individual and group counseling. I showed up around 9 in the morning while the steamy damp air prepared the city for rainfall. I circled the crowded parking garages before finally reaching the right building.
After catching the elevator to the highest floor, a brown-skinned woman sitting alone at the front desk directed me to the main office. Her voice echoed in the hollowness of the main lobby. Once in, someone led me to a small, compact entertainment room where the work would be done. It was still and cool, with a mounted TV and a play area for children.
Most of us are reflective at work, so eventually, folding letters became muscle memory as my mind wandered. I questioned how I’d gone from graduating college seven months ago to now, organizing envelopes as a volunteer— I felt as if I were, unconsciously, drifting further away from the home my ambitions were leading me to. But sometimes, what we consider backward steps might be strides in the direction of God. I sat with laughter and conversation from outside as ambient sounds and finished stuffing one stack of envelopes before two women joined me.
When they began, we shared stories, and I found out one of them also graduated from the University of South Florida. I watched as shoulders gradually loosened and postures got less stiff in our exchanges. We held loosely to our individual mystique as we became vaguely acquainted. I swiftly found the words to share my story. A story that I still don’t know how to tell only one way; it changes whenever it’s brought up. But our narratives help us create a common ground– a space where everyone can fully, breathe. My story was safe here; I could drop my weight and be as heavy as I needed to, even for a moment.
As we spoke, I began drafting this tale in my head. I sense when someone is grieving a loss— when they are a remnant of something that once was. I hear others hiding in their voices, and their stories sound like they’re trying to continue with characters they don’t wish to abandon. In the same way, Black Panther grieved having to carry on without Chadwick Boseman, but future Marvel films might reserve symbols of his likeness. The extensive Fast and Furious saga had to persist without Paul Walker.
What happens to a story when one of the main characters is pulled from the timeline? Are they replaced, or do you craft a plot to provide answers for their absence? We should honor them and the story, acknowledging their presence as pivotal in its trajectory.
Those wounded in this way speak, dream, and move with a discontinued hope. The space in their hope isn’t permanent but at the moment, noticeable. The woman I spoke to had body language that exuded this despondency, subtly. She told me her husband passed away five years ago and that just before COVID struck, she closed the 30-year business he started alongside her.
I strangely could’ve guessed she had a person who was no longer here— I do as well. In the same way, when two people arrive at a function together, and part ways to convene with friends, there’s an invisible thread connecting them even from opposite sides of the room. They move as one and others consider, “you are whole, but there is someone else here with you, who is also.” Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre would agree that “We’re looking for the “other half,” the “being” to our “nothingness.”
Like others who’ve lost their partner, I captured her independence and acceptance of her reality, adding assurance and a void to her voice. Who she became made up for what was lost– her strength had no choice but to compensate.
Accepting the new is what 2023 invites for many of us. New jobs and opportunities; love and relationships; ambitions and dreams; beliefs and hopes. There’s freedom in accepting new worlds. Have you ever felt as though love kept you in bondage? True love does not offer, but implies freedom. “You have to let go to live” is a constant trope we experience in cinema.
In films, a melodramatic scene of the main character plummeting from cliffs to preserve the life of whoever’s hand is offered depicts how heroes are usually the ones willing to fall to their death to save someone else– and survivors are left, tugging prolonged guilt with innocent hands. Letting go to live– to survive– will briefly hurt you, even if it frees you.
The reality that there might be more strength and freedom, for both parties, in letting go, wounded and freed me. “I love you too much to hold onto you.” We don’t possess our partners, but we release them to, in life and death, exist without us. They are here for you but are not yours. In an abstract reality hard to reconcile with what is tangible; we are strong, apart, and together.
Acknowledging the wholeness and resolve we possess in our individual liberation, affirms our collective strength.
But the idea is that it’s okay to let go of people, things, opportunities, and spaces in real life. We don’t forget them, but we live without the anxiety of imagining what could be. Trust God has and can see what you lost, and is holding what He wants you to have next, ready to release it.
These things are no burden weighing on your destiny or prolonging God’s will, but some stories, in God’s grand scheme, might stretch further and be more durable without the pull of one another.
Everything has a destination, and what we let go of finds a home. Letting things be as they are, offers new hopes and possibilities for both you and them. A woman could be beautiful, but freer, and more creative, when left alone. And we must live with that.
Almost three years later and I struggle to see my hands do, my heart feel, and my mouth echo the things I write. I’ve never written as much in my life as I have since June 24th, 2020. I’m still trying to make myself lighter for those around me, and walk without the burden of loving someone who is no longer able to love me back. I’ve remained unbroken by the memories of comfortable laughs, personalized affirmations, home-cooked meals, and second kisses after the first goodbye peck.
My hands are full of someone, and so is my heart; my room holds pictures I’m afraid to let go of– or maybe I can move forward with all of these things– I’m not sure how. But I’m hopeful I'll find out how to keep telling this story in a way that celebrates every character, creates room for new ones, and points to the Greatest Narrator, whose everlasting love will always make my story worth editing. 24.
— Kwon
