Back in the Chrysalis: Falling Apart (Offering 10.2)
Grief, fear, and the undoing before moving.
As Back in the Chrysalis deepens, this chapter enters the unraveling—the fear that grips the body, the grief that crashes through, and the fragile work of staying sober and present when everything feels like it might fall apart.
(If you’re new to Eclosion: An Artist’s Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Falling Apart
I was at the edge. I didn’t know what was next. On the surface everything looked okay. Inside I could feel myself screaming. I needed to escape, to run away, to feel something other than fear.
I walk through the forest, just trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all—simply trying to get through that moment. Tears flow down my face. I am so afraid—the fear is a physical pain inside of me. A deep, gnawing ache in my chest. Afraid of losing my partner, the father of my child. Afraid that this disease will be a slow decline that will take over our lives for many years to come.
Deep in the woods I sink to the ground. Weeping, I lean against a grandmother redcedar tree, surrounded by ferns and green, growing things. I just want to be held. I want someone stronger than me to hold me and tell me everything is going to be alright. I call Jen. I don’t even know what I say, or what she says. She doesn’t tell me everything will be okay—she knows it might not be. She listens. She shares her wisdom.
And somehow, I am held.
Jen holds me with her words. With her love—her presence. The forest holds me—holds me as I fall apart. As I allow myself this time to crumble. Even with no human arms around me, I feel held, supported. The grief—raw, all-consuming grief that feels as if it might tear me apart down to a cellular level—racks my body. I grieve for a life where I can rest and be assured that even if everything else falls apart, Shon, my rock, will be there to hold us. But that certainty is gone. Letting it out, letting myself fall apart, is terrifying—I don’t know if I will come back together again.
Of course, I did. As I began to come back together over the days and weeks and months ahead, I was remade. Grieving was a necessary step towards accepting the reality of what was, so that I could show up with my full self. That day I took a step towards acceptance of what was. And let go of what I wished was.
I grieved. I found a safe space and allowed myself to become undone.
This is what it feels like to melt down inside of a chrysalis. This coming undone, where you don’t know if you are dying or being remade. This is part of the magic. You cannot become a butterfly without this complete undoing. You cannot be remade without first being unmade. You cannot be found, unless first you are lost.
Running Away
This is how I made it through the day: I awoke, cared for my child, practiced yoga, meditated, went to work, prayed, walked or jogged in nature, spent time with Seren, reached out to a friend or mentor, connected with Shon through shared foot rubs and conversation on the couch, ate ice cream, went to bed, woke up and did it all over again.
There was this huge, overwhelming part of myself that simply wanted to run away. Run from the fear, from the uncertainty, from the pain. And so I ran. I ran through the woods near my home. As I ran, I looked straight ahead. I imagined myself running far, far away. And I imagined myself processing this new reality with every single step.
This was my biggest fear: Shon would die. I would get drunk. Seren would lose both parents.
Shon was the one who was always supposed to be there, no matter what. He was my failsafe—the one who made me feel okay about having a child, even though I am an alcoholic. I knew that even if I drank, she would have him. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I had no plans on drinking, but no matter how much time I have, I am always one drink away from getting drunk. I know people with 20+ years of sobriety, who have gone out and gotten drunk, sliding right back into active alcoholism, losing all they worked for to a disease that doesn’t give a damn who it takes down. What if he died? What if he died and I got drunk? Who would take care of Seren? I was terrified that we would both leave her now that Shon had cancer.
I could not get drunk. And so I ran.
At my core, I knew drinking was not an option. No matter how overwhelming things became, I had to remain sober—for Seren, for Shon, for myself. Sobriety had saved my life, but the fear and stress didn’t magically disappear just because I made the decision to stay sober. It lingered in my body, begging for release.
The woods became my sanctuary. I ran through the trees, breathing in the crisp air, trying to ground myself in the present moment. The pounding of my feet on the earth gave rhythm to my scattered thoughts. With each step, I felt myself processing the new reality, letting the shock absorb into the ground below me. The trail became a lifeline, a place where I could fall apart and still move forward, one step at a time.
When I ran, I imagined every stride was bringing me closer to peace, to clarity, to some semblance of control. I couldn’t control Shon’s diagnosis, but I could control whether or not I took a drink. I wouldn’t run away. But I could pretend, just for a bit, that I was leaving my life behind.
It was escape. It was how I came back to myself.
With each mile, while I just wanted to run away, I was also running toward my recovery, my strength, my commitment to Seren and Shon. I was running towards being the mother and partner they needed me to be, even in the face of uncertainty, even if I couldn’t see it at the time.
I ran. I meditated. I spent time in nature each day. I reached out to others walking a similar path of recovery. And I got real present with what recovery was for me.
When have you needed to fall apart in order to begin again?