You Are Not Emily Brontë
And that is a good thing
Walking out of the movies last night, I found myself thinking:
Longing for the past is both romantic and painful.
Sometimes that alone can create the kind of heartache that kills you — literally.
Like in Wuthering Heights, when Catherine and Heathcliff loved so fiercely that neither soul could tolerate being apart. It seems overly dramatic on screen, but we’ve all heard stories in real life of people who died not long after a loved one did.
Less dramatically, longing for the past — whether it’s romantic love, mother love, or self-love — can generate feel-good chemicals in the body, at least for a moment. It’s wonderful to relive moments of bliss, feelings of joy. It can even be intoxicating to remember how we felt in those special memories.
First kiss.
Birthday surprise.
The moment you finally accomplished something you once thought was impossible.
We wish we could relive those moments again and again. But when reality hits — and eventually it does — the longing for what was becomes less romantic and more limiting.
Because the truth is, life only moves in one direction.
Children grow up and move on with their own lives.
Love changes shape.
Relationships end or transform.
We can’t remain the same version of ourselves forever — our bodies age, priorities shift, and time keeps moving.
It’s all grief work, isn’t it?
I had to remind myself of that the other day when I found myself drowning in tears as I drove away from my daughter after a short and sweet visit.
It took me a while to name what I was feeling.
Was I sad for her? For me?
Did I say something wrong?
Did I want something more from the visit?
When I said no to all of those questions, it dawned on me what was really happening.
I was not sad about the visit. I was longing for something that can’t exist anymore — the past that was. A time when I was the mother to a sweet little girl who adored me no matter what happened, and she was the daughter whose small world still revolved around me.
I was longing for that version of love that has passed with time, but will linger in me forever.
All the while, I was saying goodbye to this incredible young woman who is solidly herself, who has a whole future ahead of her, and to whom I am so proud to be a mother.
It was one of those moments when grief and gratitude exist at the same time. The love and longing moment. The holding on and letting go moment.
The beautifully loving — and painful — part of life moment.
Speaking of love and pain — would Catherine have lived if she had been able to name what she was feeling? Would Heathcliff have been more understanding if he had recognized the grief they were both carrying? Or was their love simply too intense, too extraordinary, for the story to end any other way?
Of course, that decision ultimately belonged to Emily Brontë. She was the author of that story.
But when it comes to your own life, you hold the pen.
So the question becomes:
How do you want your next chapter to go? How much unnecessary pain and suffering do you want to endure?
Unlike Catherine and Heathcliff, you are not trapped inside someone else’s novel.
You are the author of your own life who knows that you can’t relive the past. Gripping onto something that can no longer exist is fruitless.
How do you want to write your next chapter?
If you’re in your Second Spring like me, I ask you not to limit what is possible. Don’t let longing stop you from dreaming — let it make you want more.
What if you can make this chapter more romantic, more alive, more surprising and adventurous than you could ever imagine?
You get to write it and live it.
Make it messy and magnificent!
With love,
xoxo
Kit
P.S. Check out the Wellness Series I am offering at Bexley Public Library this month. Tomorrow’s session (Midlife and Menopause in Chinese Medicine) is full, but you can get on the waitlist!