Survivors

Three years ago, I was impossibly stuck in a loop of self-doubt and self-sabotage. Three years ago, I ran my fingers through strands of pine needles on a tree in the woods behind my house and asked “what secrets do you know?” Three years ago, I never imagined that I would be here, in front of you, talking about how my life was a-bombed but I still managed to get my shit together, even started doing yoga, and then there was a pandemic.

“David Muir is Stephanie’s soothing person. He SOOTHES her.” Mom blurted out on one of our first family cocktail hour Zooms. David Muir, if you don’t know, is the dashing anchorman of ABC World News Tonight. Being a single mom with three kids, a stinky toothless dog, and two octogenarian parents all under the same household during a global pandemic sure was shaping up to be something else. The fact that I am still able to string sentences together and speak them is a goddamn miracle. Yes, my 87-year-old Homegoods-loving mother told everyone on the family Zoom that I had a massive crush on David Muir. There was just something about that black suit, tanned skin, unwavering hair, and that VOICE that helped me sleep during those nightmare-filled Covid nights. These were the days that I would drive with Lysol wipes in my hands to scrub down the steering wheel every five seconds and I thought daily about squirting hand sanitizer in my mouth when I accidentally licked my thumb or something. I washed up like a surgeon when I entered my home, scrubbing from fingernails to elbows. I tried to keep my distance from Mom and Dad in our less than 2000 square foot home. Damn straight David Muir’s voice soothed me with his rising death toll numbers every night.

Managing shared custody of three young children during a pandemic while living with two VERY vulnerable individuals was a completely ungoogleable thing. Trust me, I tried to Google my situation and the internet simply did not have any answers for me. I walked down the street I grew up on, tears probably dropping behind me, and wondered if this were the end. The conversations I had with my siblings tested all of our limits, I even hung up on one of them when I could no longer breathe through my words. I nearly lost my shit. Correction—I lost my shit many times over. If it weren’t for David Muir and my therapist, my lost shit would never have been found. Side note—goddess bless the therapists who waded through all of that lost shit . Goddess. Bless. My therapist essentially told me that this was the time for radical acceptance because, as my best friend Meg says, “you can’t put the shit back in the donkey” and, as it turns out, you sure as hell can’t put a coronavirus back into a bat.

As the luggage of worries I constantly carried with me deposited itself directly under my eyes, pairing perfectly with my grey uncut hair, my ex and I managed to share and raise our kids as best we could during a fucked up crisis. There were temperature scans on a daily basis, excessive monitoring of any symptoms, and a fuck ton of managing my OCD. Instead of counting steps, I was counting the number of seconds I was taking to wash my hands. I encouraged the kids to be outdoors as much as humanly possible, we still dined together—ages 6-87—almost every night. While most grandkids were kept far from their Nana’s hugs and their Grampy’s hearty laughs, mine were right next to them. We broke bread and told stories of Dad’s youth and military service. When J.D. broke down as David Muir told a sad story of someone who had passed from Covid, Mom and I did too. The kids bounced back and forth between my home and their Dad’s; I learned to breathe through all the worry and found a strength I never knew I had.

I stand before you here today to tell a tale of a life that blew up. With shrapnel and pieces of my heart in the air, I worked through two of the most difficult human years of our existence. Three years ago, I would never have imagined telling you all this. Two years ago, I thought Mom and Dad would never make it through this shit. One year ago, I didn’t see any end to the misery. But, tonight? Tonight, I see people, I hear laughter, I feel the warmth of someone’s hand, and I taste the salty tears of my joy. There is nowhere else I’d rather be than in this moment right now because this moment, this very second, is a gift.

Happy holidays to all of you incredibly gorgeous survivors out there. You are alive, now go and truly live the fuck out of this gift called life.