Loves, Losses, and Fears

I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago. Three, actually.

But I can't. My mind is racing. My memories are flying all over the place. My emotions, too.

This happens sometimes. I am a veteran of anxiety and regret-induced insomnia. I fall for the what if's from both the present and the future. And man. They are daunting. 

Tonight I'm mostly just sad. Like mourning sad. I'm mourning the loss of someone who died two years ago. 

I mourn her every day. And I'm not saying that to sound sentimental or sweet. I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. 

I mourn her. Every. Day. 

She was the first person who accepted me as I was that very second I met her. She was the very definition of love. 

In fact, she taught me a lot about love. 

One of the first lessons she ever taught me even came with a title on a white board: 

"Loves, Losses, and Fears" she called it. 

In a 7:45 am college course during a particularly dark January in Rexburg, Idaho, my classroom of peers and I had to face this seemingly silly and uncomfortable topic out loud, with each other. Our job was to essentially experience vulnerability, in a safe, judgment-free zone. We were instructed to turn to our neighbor and share with them one of our loves, one of our losses, and one of our fears. 

It was about to get personal. 

The only rule? We couldn't judge each other. OR judge ourselves.

And I think in our squirming vulnerability and insecure self-consciousness, the latter was the harder of the two tasks for probably most of us. 

It was an emotional class period. At first we all expected it to be cheesy, at best. But truly, it was a unique experience to say the least. We-who had previously been happy with being anti-social and detached from one another-WE (because of her master plan, obviously) had fostered a safe, judgment-free zone of nothing but listening, empathy and compassion. 

And even though we never would have achieved that feat without her, she gave us all the credit for being good, quality, human beings that day. 

I definitely felt a sense of love and camaraderie for my peers I had not felt previously. And I definitely walked away from that early morning class with more of a desire to be a higher quality human being. 

Since that lesson, I have often reflected on the importance of personally acknowledging AND sharing my loves, losses, and fears at various times in my life.

And for the record, this can be accomplished in a multitude of ways, with or without a formal setting and a white board. 

You don't even have to be a professor to teach. And you don't need to be in college to learn this stuff. 

We all need to. Share our loves, losses, and fears I mean. We share both by opening up and by tuning in to each other. Both can be challenging. But in doing so, love will foster and even flourish. 

We all are prone to loves, losses, and fears. 

I have a lot of each. Some of them overlap. Some of my biggest loves have become my greatest losses. Some of my fears are because of the enormous love I have for certain people and certain things. 

Some of my fears I am still too prideful to share with my "neighbor." Some of my losses are mine to mourn alone. Because vulnerability is still uncomfortable. And terrifying. 

I may claim to be an expert at insomnia and worrying about things I have no control over. But when it comes to the power of vulnerability, I have loads to learn. 

But I do know this: we all learn to unlock that sacred power through simply loving each other. 

Knowing this so personally, I hope that we can all try a little harder to make life a judgment-free zone. 

Well. I hate the feeling of not being able to thank again and again and again someone who took so much time to teach me such invaluable lessons. 

She will forever be one of my biggest loves. And saddest losses. And my fear attached to all this is that I won't ever be the best version of myself that she somehow saw me being. 

But at that, I know she is rolling her eyes at my mounting self-doubt and telling me to, "Get the hell over it." 

So, for now-I do.