The Paradox of Surrender

“Whatever I do, and however our life unfolds, the only thing that truly matters is their wellbeing. It’s the one thing I won’t - CAN’T - surrender.”

I told a girlfriend today how this journey of loss and grief feels like the ultimate experiment in surrender. Nothing makes earthly sense. I can’t satisfactorily explain anything.

Why did my kids’ dad die?

What will our life look like in one year?

What will my return to work be like?

I have ideas and maybe some wishes, but zero guarantees. (And maybe that’s simply life. We plan, and then life unfolds. God knows I’ve been down this path before, though never with a flavor so jarring and sorrowful.)

I’ve been utterly consumed by how my husband’s passing is affecting my kids. I have to be careful not to flirt too much with obsession, because that serves no one. To live life walking on eggshells would only deepen the anxiety in our family unit. But I am determined not to let this loss damage them. I know it will leave an everlasting imprint, but not damage.

The (maybe only) one thing I know with certainty is this: how I carry myself and manage my own process in navigating this loss will be the single most influential factor in how my children manage theirs. I must model, somehow at the same time, strength, vulnerability, faith, heartbreak, and compassion. (Denial that we’ve endured something unthinkable is NOT an option.)

I tell them at least once a day, “What we are going through is very hard and sad, but we must be kind and patient with each other.”

We’ve been visiting my daughter’s biological father, who has honorably stepped into his solo father role for both my children, though only one is his by blood. A change of scenery - getting away from the home where so many beautiful yet recently sad memories live - has been good for us. I see my kids elated, experiencing joy and levity as we swim and laugh and play. And then I see them in their grief.

My daughter gets deeply frustrated - screaming, demanding, trying to hit anyone, anything. My son gets angry and yells, unsure where to place his unassigned anger.

And I get it. They’re only beginning to learn how to manage their emotions, yet here they are, working through one of the hardest emotional blows a child can be dealt.

Alongside the other adults in their lives, I try to meet them with more patience and compassion than I might otherwise. But walking the line between grace and boundaries is a constant practice. I often wonder if I’m being too tough or not tough enough.

Today, like most days, my daughter tested me for hours. I gave her our timeline to go home, but when it came time to leave, she insisted on swimming. She couldn’t accept my “No.” Tired of negotiating and explaining, I got frustrated and stern. I hate that feeling. I hate being that way. I knew she was tired on top of feeling all the hard stuff.

There was the car seat wrestle. The fighting with her brother on the drive home. The 7-minute ride felt like 70.

Earlier, I’d been discussing logistics and planning with my ex, but suddenly everything felt trivial. Work will always be there in some form. Money will come back when it’s meant to. (I have to believe this, right?) But my kids - their hearts, souls, spirits - however resilient, I simply cannot fuck this up.

Back home, when my daughter was still down, I just wanted to cry. The feeling of somehow always letting someone down, especially these two small people who rely entirely on me, is so overwhelming. Their souls trust me to tend to them in every way.

Becoming a mom reunited me with my intuition. This experience has sharpened it entirely.

Whatever I do, and however our life unfolds, the only thing that truly matters is their wellbeing. It’s the one thing I won’t - CAN’T - surrender.

And maybe that’s the paradox of surrender: to survive this, I have to let go of what I can’t control: how life will unfold, what grief may look like tomorrow. But at the same time, I have to hold on tightly to what anchors us. My children. Their healing. Our future.

I surrender to the unknown. But I do not surrender my role in guiding us through it.