It was a Tuesday—Taco Tuesday, to be exact. Because I put hot sauce on everything—eggs, cottage cheese, french fries, sandwiches—every bottle in the refrigerator was close to empty. So, I headed to the store to ensure a proper taco-eating experience.
I found myself standing in the condiment aisle with toilet paper and other things I didn't need, deciding between Chipotle Tabasco or Valentina. As I reached for the Tabasco, a lump grabbed my throat. Suddenly, I felt like I couldn't breathe. My heart began to race. The lump ballooned, and then I started to cry - not quiet tears, but sobs. Ugly, beautiful crying. I couldn't stop myself. I curiously looked around, thinking maybe someone had hurt me or bumped me with their cart, causing me to cry so hard. But I was the only one in the aisle.
I set down the toilet paper and cream cheese and clutched the hot sauce box to my chest. I tightly shut my eyes, willing the tears away, but it didn't work at all.
An older woman searching for her own condiments stumbled upon me weeping in the aisle. I hadn't even realized my eyes were still closed until I felt a hand gently touch my back. Her gray hair and the deep lines on her face framed a gentle smile. Her head tilted, and her eyebrows raised curiously.
"Darling, are you alright?" she asked.
I shut my eyes again and shook my head. "Yes," I whispered, "I think I'm just feeling everything all at once."
Her smile widened as she slowly nodded knowingly.
My oldest daughter, Zoë, had come home after graduating from college in May. She planned to move to San Diego after spending the summer living at home with us and working as a wrangler with her sister at a local ranch.
The post-college transition was complex for all of us. A lot had happened in her four-year absence, including a global pandemic. But somehow, it felt like just yesterday that I was standing silently in her doorway with a similar lump in my throat, anticipating her departure for college and wondering what life would be like without her there. It felt like I had just adjusted to life without her when the boxes and my beautiful girl filled the empty space again.
When she arrived home, layers of emotions came too:
Excitement to see her, be with her, hug her whenever I wanted.
Worry about readjusting to another new rhythm of life.
Gratitude for the precious unexpected time I was being allowed with our family.
Confusion that I was old enough to have a child who was a college graduate.
Joy at witnessing my girls together, fighting over clothes and cleanup, and listening to them laugh together while laying in bed on a Sunday morning watching rom-coms.
Anxiety about creating balance in my professional and personal life while she was home. I knew I would be tempted to drop everything for more time with her.
Pride in watching my daughters become emotionally intelligent women.
Sadness and fear arrived, too. It took four years to get used to life without her. She came back, but in only 3 1/2 short months, I knew she'd be gone again.
So, as she unpacked her boxes, I filled them with the emotions I didn't want to feel. I did my best to savor the delicious feelings like love and joy and avoided the less savory ones. Grief, worry, sadness, confusion, and fear popped out of the boxes all summer. When they did, I used work, doom-scrolling on social media, cleaning, and yoga to play emotional whack-a-mole to keep them in check.
But my feelings arrived then and there in the Walmart condiment aisle, like unexpected guests early on a Sunday morning. They had been feverishly knocking on the door of my life all summer, hoping to be allowed in. But I pretended to be asleep and ignored them with busyness and distractions. Emotions demand to be felt, though. When they're not, they'll pick the lock and let themselves in when you least expect them. On that Tuesday, they kicked the door down. And they brought hot sauce.
She was leaving on Wednesday. My trip to the store for hot sauce was to ensure her final meal at home was complete, but it was also a last-ditch effort to avoid my familiar old friends: sadness, grief, and loss. I had no choice but to let them in. But when I did, the depth of my love for my daughter felt endless. I felt more love than I had the entire summer. Feelings and emotions are like colors on the color wheel. Their stark contrast is necessary and complementary. Green alone is far less brilliant without red. The spring warmth feels delightful because we know the chill of winter. In avoiding the sadness, I kept myself stuck anticipating instead of experiencing. Feelings and emotions aren't good or bad. They're necessary. All of them.
"Oh my, yes. You certainly are feeling everything. Isn't that great?" the older woman said, fumbling in her purse for a tissue. But I used my sleeve to wipe my eyes.
"Thank you," I said. She softly nodded and grabbed the Cholula hot sauce - a bold choice, I thought. Maybe she was having tacos, too.
When I got home, I ran to Zoë's room, held her closely, and told her how wonderful and hard it was to have her come back and how proud and sad I felt watching her go again. I wasn't alone - she was feeling it too. We laughed and cried while we packed her boxes and unpacked our feelings. We let ourselves feel all the colors on the wheel, all valuable, all equally important. We felt more connected and less anxious as love and pain swirled the room. We reflected on how much closer we had become in the last four years and imagined with excitement and curiosity what this next chapter would bring.
And then we ate tacos.