Hope and change

With Normal Broken out in the world and my book tour underway, I figured everyone would forgive me if there was no blog this week. Then I got on the plane to fly from New Jersey to Chicago and was hit with the reality of what I was embarking on and that this big thing that I have been talking about for months - years even - is finally here. It is all happening.

Seven and a half years ago, Miguel left Adelaide and I in the hospital as she was being rolled away for a spinal tap so that he could attend a callback for Hamilton. Days later we would have an epilepsy diagnosis, a Hamilton job offer, an interstate move to plan, and an end to my professional life as I knew it.

This week I launched a new career which is currently focused on life after Adelaide all while Miguel stares down a momentous end of a significant chapter in his own career. Oh, and I’m typing this while on a plane to Chicago. Talk about full circle.

I have gone from those early days of resenting Miguel for his career success and general freedom, to taking more pride in being a caregiver for Adelaide than anything I had ever done (will ever do?). Every step of our journey, I have had to grieve the life I had dreamed of: for Adelaide, myself, and our family. To the point that I stopped dreaming because the glass shards from my shattered hopes had left a path too hazardous to walk.

After Adelaide died, I lost my purpose, my focus, and my drive all over again. Dreaming went from dangerous to a disability. It wasn’t that I was scared to dream, it was that I no longer could. The concept of a tomorrow had been stricken from my understanding. How could I possibly exist in any sort of future without my daughter?

But exist I did.

And eventually, I found myself doing more than just existing. I made a choice to survive. And then at some point, I decided to give healing a try. Not in the way that I ever got over Adelaide or moved on from her - but I learned to live with my grief and carry her forward with me in the only way I could.

Therapy helped.

Meds helped.

Family and friends helped.

But writing is what returned to me my purpose, focus, and drive. Writing provided me with a sheltered space where I could confine my fears and nurture my seedlings of hope into new dreams. Dreams that looked like having a career of my own again. Dreams that looked like publishing a book.

So here I am, with that book I had allowed myself to dream of years ago. I am embarking on a cross country tour and reclaiming my life, identity, and narrative.

Make no mistake, I am not healed. I am healing.

I am not a survivor. I am surviving.

I am not the same Kelly I was in that hospital room looking on as my infant daughter was wheeled away as I wished my husband good luck on his audition. Or the same one who held that same daughter as the pulse ox ceased to sense her vitals.

And that’s ok.

We are supposed to change. Change is what growth looks like. So I keep moving forward, an inchstone at a time, still afraid of dreaming but willing to try once more through the cultivation of hope: I hope that this book will be a success so that it can reach all the people who need it. So that others can learn to find hope again. So that I can keep writing!

I hope This is a new beginning. I’m not sure of what yet because that would require significantly more dreaming than I am currently capable. But I think I’m getting closer to figuring it out.

ID: Kelly wearing red pants, a white t-shirt, no make-up and her hair in a messy bun on top of her head is smiling while kneeling on the floor. She has both arms wrapped around a one year old, Adelaide who is sitting in her lap. Adelaide is wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey and a pink headband.