Celebrating in the face of death
I don't know if you share this feeling, but we are not okay. My husband and I have been fumbling around in a tired fog the last few weeks. We wonder how we will make it to bedtime, but instead of sleeping, we quiet our grief with tv shows. Or funny reels. We trust that it will all be made right in the end, but how to live through this worrisome world with energy and joy? Let's just say I shan't be teaching that masterclass, okay?
I wonder if you are turning over every rock, peering into every nook and cranny, looking for a way out of the fog like I am. Are you three cups of coffee deep by noon, asking the Lord why you still need a nap? Are you grounded enough in reality to own the truth that we are just not okay?
A few months ago, before creating After Hours, I emailed my community about the need to celebrate, even in grief. It cracked my heart wide open and not only did I need these words again, but I felt compelled to share them here with you. May these words help you feel seen and remembered tonight.
On one of my “bury this grief in good tv” nights, Netflix recommended a French show, Call My Agent. On a regular week, I'd click NEXT. Instead, I pressed PLAY.
The women look like us—bags under the eyes, wrinkles, different body types. The drama and humor inside the talent agency are just right.
We don't talk about death enough in America, so I found myself attracted to an opportunity to let the truth be told. Death is the driving theme in the final season—death to dreams, relationships, and potential. In the end, death to the agency.
The managing partner - usually an upbeat, high achiever, "get 'er done" type - slugs around Paris in the finale. She enters the office conference room. Her most famous and loyal client, a man at the end of his career, is standing there.
Bottles of champagne fill an ice bucket. Bread baskets, cheese platters, fruits, and sweets cover the table. Fresh flowers are everywhere. She stands astonished, tears filling her eyes. "Andrea," he says, "It's all for you. To thank you…" He doesn't know yet that she's decided to let it all go, take care of her daughter, and re-order her life.
As they say goodbye, Andrea says:
"I loved taking care of you all, but I sort of lost myself along the way."
That evening, the conference room fills with agents, partner producers, and the owner for a final toast. They raise a glass, laugh, cry, share their next steps, and say goodbye.
Picture me, curled up under my free Arie blanket, on our dark blue cloud sofa, sobbing like a lunatic. I, too, have experienced death to dreams, relationships, potential. "Pivot" should replace "Nicole" as my middle name.
What made me cry (reader, I am not a crier) was not only the European way of speaking plainly about loss. It was a celebration in the face of death. It was the kindness of a friend to set the table with food, fresh flowers, and outstretched arms.
The cast dared to toast to the end of an era. Shall we dare to do the same?
Since November, I've made significant changes in my life. I couldn't be more proud of myself. At the same time, there's painful grief in acknowledging that some relationships no longer work, and that a few pursuits are dead in the water, that what I've loved and desired in the past is not what I need or want now.
I'm learning to metaphorically raise a glass. (Love to all my people in recovery.) If you need permission to say that things are no longer working, I pray you'd receive that today. If you’ve sort of lost yourself along the way, I pray you gently come home to the truth of who you are. If you need the courage to keep going, wisdom to make decisions, or resources to sustain you, I pray for all of this and more.
We must have hope in hard places, dear one. Hope is how the world carries on. Never give up. Never give in.
With love and solidarity,
Ashley