This too shall pass

Many years ago a friend shared this phrase with me when I was in the depths of a deeply difficult time in my life.
A chapter where I felt so consumed by sadness that I would often lie awake at night, feeling as if my chest might crack under the weight of my heart.

When he gifted me these words, it was like he cracked a window open in a dark room and a tiny sliver of sunlight slipped in.
Things were still dark, but I knew there was light out there.

They carried the current of hope in such a simple but deeply true way.
No matter how heavy life felt, these words reminded me that there would be sunny days ahead.
I would smile again. I would laugh again, often far sooner than I could conceive of in the heat of the pain.

I’ve carried those words with me ever since, one of my most trusty companions.
Whenever life gets tough, I reach for them, and like a loving friend they remind me that no matter how painful or permanent things feel, this too shall pass.

Today we celebrated Ocean’s fifth birthday.
We gathered on the beach with a big group of his friends and ours.
The sun was shining, 24 degrees in mid-October, the water crystal clear.
The kids ran around like free wildlings, splashing and shrieking with joy, while we adults shared food, hugs, laughter, and cake.
It was a perfect Ibiza day.

Ocean, 5 years old

As we watched our kids run and crawl along the sand, one of Ocean’s best friend’s mums and I, with tears in our eyes, shared how deeply grateful we feel to watch our children have such a magical childhood.
I sent my parents the photos, sharing the joy with them.

When we got home, I lay in bed with Ocean while he told me about his favourite parts of the day, his little hand in mine.
Then he nuzzled his curls into my chest and said, “I’m so glad you’re my mummy,” before drifting off to sleep.

As he fell asleep, those words visited me again: this too shall pass.

But this time, instead of easing the feeling in my chest as they usually do, they did the opposite.
I felt as if my heart might break.

“Oh no,” I thought. This too shall pass.

One day, sooner than I can bear, his little hand won’t be so little and he’ll be living his own life.
My son forever, of course, but the feeling of his curls against my chest, his laughter without a care in the world, this too shall pass.
One day I won’t be able to message my parents and receive a reply.
One day my body won’t carry me so freely across the sand.

It’s all so impermanent.
We can’t will the painful days to go quicker, and we can’t hold on to the ones where everything feels perfect, no matter how hard we grip.

In the end, all we are left with is the truth that it’s all going, sooner or later, and the invitation to simply feel it all while we can.
The pain, the joy, the exquisite tragedy of being human.

For those interested in the writing process,
I often write these pieces as I’m lying in bed with Ocean and Zemi as they fall asleep.
The idea visits me, the words rush in, and I hear the full piece almost complete.
The minute I know they’re asleep, I rush to my computer to try and capture it as closely as I can to how I first heard it.

In this instance, that last paragraph was where it ended, feel it all.
But as I sat down to write, I saw there is a deeper invitation than to feel.

That is to feel, together.

Feeling all of it attunes us to the human heart.
But feeling together is what heals the human heart.

And feeling together isn’t just sharing how we feel with words.
Although that might be part of it, I suspect it’s a far smaller part than many healing or therapeutic spaces would suggest.
I sense that feeling together is most powerfully achieved through gathering — in ritual and ceremony, to celebrate birth and death and union, to honour the changing of the seasons.
It’s dancing in ecstasy at a music festival, or crying together at a sad film.

The act of gathering with intention - to feel together - is core to being human.
We need it to thrive.
It’s why we choose to live in Ibiza, where gathering like this is still woven into the fabric of daily life.

And those moments when we feel it all together - this too shall pass.
But what a thing, to have shared it.

Happy birthday, Ocean.
I love you.