![]() ![]() I’ll never know for sure what my dad would think about the many potentially crazy (but hopefully good) decisions I’ve made, but there are some things I do know: I know my dad wanted to start his own business for years and I know he waited longer than he wanted to because he had a stable, great paying job and kids and a family to take care of. Ideas. And I just knew it would be impossible to do all we want to do without giving this community my full attention. This job that I had was objectively amazing, but it took away from the time I wanted to focus here. Why? Well, why does any working-mom quit her job? Because WYG is our toddler and I want to spend as much time nurturing it and helping it grow as I can. I was overseeing twenty-six people: amazing social workers, psychologists, thanatologists, and chaplains who provide outstanding grief services to families-plus an incredible volunteer coordinator, community educators and other outreach staff. In all objective ways, this should have been exactly where I wanted to work indefinitely: at an amazing organization with amazing people doing exceptional work with incredible autonomy, great benefits, and an outstanding team, doing work that excited and inspired me. ![]() WYG started as a side-project-baby and, as babies do, it’s grown into a side-project-toddler over the years. I have been a working-mom to this project-baby while working a very busy day job running a family services program for a non-profit that provides grief and bereavement support to families at the end of a loved one’s life and in the years that follow. I guess now’s a good time to fill you all in on my crazy leap. If you’re a regular reader of WYG, you may have thought that Eleanor and I spend all our time making What’s Your Grief happen. You actually can talk to dead people, but the problem is they can’t answer back. And, like I said, sometimes you just really really want them to answer back. The problem is, you can’t talk to dead people. Scratch that I talk to my dad all the time. I wanted to tell him all the reasons why this jump off a giant cliff into the vast unknown seemed like a good idea then I wanted to ask him, “Do you think I’m crazy? and then I wanted him to tell me once again: “ Well you’re a little crazy-but that’s okay.” In the months before I made the final decision (and believe me, it was months!), I wanted so many times to talk to my dad. Well, technically I did the quitting part a few months ago but Friday was my last day. I’m making different big decisions these days, but the longing I feel for my father’s input and advice remains the same. ![]() I wanted him to say to me, “Well, you’re a little crazy-but that’s okay.” And when the time came to do things like use a belt sander for the first time and change out the faucets, I wanted to pick up the phone and call him because, well, those are the moments that dads are for.įast forward a handful of years and now I’m in my 30s. At the time, I remember wondering, “ Would my dad be excited for me or think I’m crazy?” I vividly remember wanting nothing more than for him to see this house and to give it his seal of approval. For example: I bought my first house-a big fixer-upper here in Baltimore-when I was 24. I planned to fix-up the place on my own, with no know-how and a next-to-nothing social work salary. My dad died when I was a teenager, so the adult me often wonders about the adult advice he would give me if he were he still here. Whoever that person is who died-your mom, son, daughter, father, grandparent, friend, husband, wife… Don’t you wish you could talk to them sometimes? Sure, you miss them every day and you often wish you could sit down with them for a beer and a card game (or whatever it is you liked to do), but some days don’t you just especially want to talk to them so you could ask them a certain question, get their input, or talk to them about something really specific? You love someone who’s died, right? I mean, if you read or follow What’s Your Grief, that seems like a safe assumption. Reflection, Continued Bonds, Grieving a Father ![]()
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