When you think of a “celebration”, what comes to mind for you? For me, it’s a loud word. A shouting from the rooftops sort of thing. Fireworks, streamers, large gatherings, fancy drinks, and sparkly things. Does our culture even allow something to qualify as a “proper” celebration if it isn’t all these?
I’m writing this while sitting in the airport, about to board a plane to Jacksonville to lead Mindful Return’s 10th Anniversary Working Parent Retreat. I had a vision for this retreat about a year ago, as I approached the one-decade mark of running the Mindful Return program. I’ve often struggled to mark achievements, having been programmed growing up with an “okay that’s done, what’s next” mentality. And I wanted this to be different. I wanted to take the time to bask under palm trees and declare with unadulterated joy that I was proud of how far I’ve come and how beautiful a community we’ve grown.
Yet as I sit here at the airport, I’m full of a whole spectrum of emotions. I was hoping for a cup full only of joy, but the elixir in front of me is much more complex. I’m asking myself: How can I party while Rome burns? How can I celebrate while LA residents are homeless? While fear pervades both my close-in consciousness of my federal employee friend groups, and my wider-out consciousness of the world at large, caused by a toxically masculine broligarchy? How can I celebrate while I have a child in mental health crisis once again?
I’ve been looking out there in the world for examples of those who have held celebration and pain simultaneously. One that immediately comes to mind is the number of moms in the Mindful Return community who have shared that their baby’s birth coincided closely in time with the illness or loss of a parent or loved one. Another common example among our crew is grieving a miscarriage at the same time as celebrating the birthday of an older child. How overwhelming it can feel to sit with the most magical joys and the deepest sorrows in the same moment.
It turns out I can’t actually celebrate right now – either this 10-year anniversary or anything else – if my definition has to be a loud one. If my celebration requires dissociation from the pain, or an inauthentic pretending that everything’s just fine, I must decline. But if “celebration” can mean something else, something more, then yes, I’m ready to celebrate my milestone.
This week, I’m hoping to celebrate being in the presence of other working parents who understand this tension I’m feeling, deep in their bones. I’m hoping to find joy in sunshine, warm weather, and a swim. And I’m going to define celebration simply as “being held.”
I used to think, naively, that when I went to mark an important occasion, I had a “right” somehow to unburdened joy. This feeling is what we try to create for our beloved children on their birthdays, no? Now, in adulthood, I see that nothing is so simple. The definition of being an adult is, perhaps, the ability to hold both.
So yes, I may be quiet and not so outwardly-exuberant this week, but I am still holding space for joy, too. As you are reading this, our retreat group will be marking the happy intersection of two great events. Did you know that today, February 2, is both International Crepe Day and Ice Cream for Breakfast Day? You can be sure we are appreciating this confluence of great foods and celebrating in our own quiet and tender way.
Want more practical tips on working parenthood? Check out my book, Back to Work After Baby: How to Plan and Navigate a Mindful Return from Maternity Leave