Back To Centre.

I once read some life advice in The New York Times from a widow mourning the passing of her husband. She’d been told to ‘sleep on his side of the bed’. She claimed doing so greatly lessened the ache of missing his physical presence. That filling the space where he once lay meant she yearned for him a little less.   

Months and months ago, when I was lying wide awake in the middle of the night, I remembered her advice. I’d read it a long time prior to my marriage falling apart but, there in the booming silence and the crushing darkness, it came to me. 

I have a habit of doing that; remembering things I’ve read. Not when I want to remember them, necessarily, like on command when quizzed, but when I need to. 

On that sleepless night, I recall rolling over to the right-hand side of the bed. It felt cold. The sheets were unwrinkled. They hadn’t had the weight of a body on top of them for a while. 

It felt slightly odd to be on the wrong side of the bed; by contrast it was mildly comforting. I don’t remember drifting off to sleep that night, only waking up. And when I did, it was morning. 

When I was holding onto my marriage, when I was trying to bend and twist and will it to work, when all I wanted was for him to stay, I was petrified. 

To the core. 

I was never scared of being alone; I am great alone. I enjoy alone. 

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Swings And Roundabouts.

Yesterday, I opened a letter from my bank and baulked. Rising interest rates have added $1500 a month to my mortgage repayments. ‘Effective 16 March 2023’ it shouted and danced on the paper in my hands.

‘Thanks, cunts,’ I muttered under my breath. Now, don’t confuse me, or my words – I am grateful to be paying off my own home. I am fortunate, beyond measure. Acutely aware that a home of one’s own is increasingly becoming a privilege. I am not complaining. But fuck.  

Perturbed by the news, I hit the garden and began furiously weeding a patch outside my kitchen window. And then my phone rang.

It was my nephew, M, calling to tell me he was coming over in a few weeks to paint my bathroom ceiling and fix my doors. ‘Start making me a list of all the jobs you need done,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tick them off one by one.’

‘How lovely of you,’ I said. ‘Swings and roundabouts,’ I thought. Swings and roundabouts.

Something that has become abundantly clear to me over the past six months is how two things can be true at the same time. I always kind of knew it. But now I get it.

I am thirty-eight years old and, for the first time in my adult life, single. I am no longer a wife. I do not have a husband. I am not married. I am a single mother. I am a sole breadwinner. I am alone.

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JOIN ME AS I DO IT FOR THE PLOT…

I am very excited to announce my subscription only weekly newsletter has launched, with the first instalment landing in inboxes on February 23, 2023. 

People have been telling me for years to release a podcast. Maybe I will, one day. But I genuinely believe the world needs less podcasts, not more. I’m a writer. Words slip out from the tips of my fingers with such ease, it’d shock you. I think the world needs more words. And more readers. Less sixty second TikToks and Reels, and more sentences. Less noise in microphones, and more silence while reading thoughts. So I’m sticking true — to myself, my craft, and the kind of art I want to keep putting out in the world. There’s what’s popular, and there’s what’s right for you.

There’s a couple of reasons this newsletter is for paid subscribers only. 

One, I’m a good writer. You can read a huge volume of my work online for free. I’ll still share and post a lot of work that anyone with an internet connection can access for free. But this newsletter will not be one of them. 

Two, access to me is a privilege. Access to my life, and adventures, mishaps, and emotions, thoughts, and escapades, is a privilege. I am going to give it to you all. Raw and real. 

And what a privilege it will be for me to do so.

Join me as I do it for the plot. Subscribe now at sandisieger.substack.com.

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22 THINGS I LEARNED IN 2022…

The hardest year of my life has taught me a few things — who is there, and who really cares. How being strong is both a blessing and a curse. How grateful I am for the past adversity in my life, because it’s wired me differently. And probably saved me. How I am only just beginning. How young I really am. How special and rare it is to meet and make so many new friends at an age when most people’s circles get smaller, and, let’s be honest, often more boring.

Thank you, #TWENTYTWENTYWOO. I am at peace, and yet somehow on fire. Here’s to my next chapter: #TWENTYTWENTYFREE — it’s going to be my most undaunted, audacious, completely savage, terribly striking, utterly magical, slightly unhinged, unreservedly formidable year yet. 

  1. Throw out the rule book — you can rewrite your story anytime.
  2. Match effort. Respond to energy. 
  3. Sometimes being alone is an upgrade. 
  4. Two things can be true at once.
  5. Your greatest loss might just be the biggest opportunity you ever have to become fully alive. 
  6. Success is often seen as one big breakthrough, one major milestone. But the reality is success comes from the small, slow, tedious work of showing up for yourself and your dreams over and over and over again. 
  7. Even in trauma, we can still find joy. 
  8. We are all alone. That is not to say we must be lonely. Keep company. But you better like yourself. Because it’s all you’ve got.
  9. We are all flawed, but we are still worthy. 
  10. Sometimes the fear doesn’t go away, so you have to do it afraid. 
  11. Life is full of sudden goodbyes. 
  12. The most courageous thing you can do is…what you want. This will make other people uncomfortable. They can get used to it or choke on it. Their call. 
  13. We are all going to suffer. You decide whether you cling to it, or whether you heal from it. 
  14. You know who’s going to give you everything? Yourself. 
  15. Children learn what they live. Your actions and attitude will determine if they live well — the rest of the stuff we worry about is just noise. 
  16. As you vibrate higher, as you level up, it may seem like your world is falling apart — but it’s falling into place. Don’t be surprised when those preventing progress are removed from your life.
  17. Spend the afternoon. You cannot take it with you. 
  18. Many people will be drawn to your light but will fold at their inability to handle it. Take nothing personal. 
  19. Romanticise your life. Even through the mess and uncertainty. Especially through the mess and uncertainty. 
  20. Perspective and gratitude is all you need to live in the now. Practice both daily. 
  21. It all works out in the end. 
  22. The woman who’s hustling cannot understand the woman who’s hating. We don’t speak the same language. This year, I’ve come to understand my hustle offends some. Good. I hope my hustle offends the shit of out you. I hope my stamina frightens you (it should, you could never). I hope my sparkle burns your eyes. I have so much more for you to be mad at. Just wait. 

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Merry, Forever. Happy, Always.

I felt a lump swell in the base of my throat yesterday.

I instantly knew what it was.

I’ve felt it a couple of times this year already; in the days leading up to my birthday, and Father’s Day, and his birthday.

It’s unmistakable – a sharp bulge, that intensifies the more I try to quash it.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Gulp.

But it remains.

I wonder if it’ll be like this forever.

I suspect it might still be too early to know.

There’s been a lot of ‘firsts’ this year.

First without this, and first without that.

People say it gets easier with the seconds and thirds.

I’m not convinced.

Time passes, time heals. Maybe. But it doesn’t erase.

And I wouldn’t want it to.

So many years of saturated memories; tinsel flooded floorboards, and sunburn, tables overflowing with food, and cherry stained fingertips. Music permeating the walls. Laughter, over the crunch of wrapping paper.

For the most part, this Christmas won’t be all that different from any other.

There’ll just be one person missing.

It’s disconcerting how life ticks along, as though the people who once loomed so large were never there at all.

But of course they were.

I’ve got little interest in popping crackers or faking festivity over small talk with people I’ve no partiality to.

I just want to be around the people I love, that get it.

The ones that you don’t have to explain anything to, because they know.

It’s funny, what, and who, you’re drawn to after loss. The comfort you find in the familiar, the warmth in revisiting old memories, and with it, old feelings.

I like being close to that.

And as far away as possible from the rest of it.

It’s hard to describe – the immense sense of loss, the extensive gaping hole – because it is entirely at odds with – sublime happiness, genuine excitement – and here I am, occupied by all of them, at once.

It is both melancholic, and marvellous. Delicate, and misinterpreted. Complex, and cathartic. Light, and dark.

The lump comes.

And goes.

It’s unmistakable.

But maybe instead of trying to quash it, I’ll just let it linger.

It’s a nice reminder, in some ways.

To stay near the people, and do the things, that feel like light.

Not just for a season.

Merry, forever.

Happy, always.

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As Good As Can Be Expected.

My Dad passed away two weeks ago.

People keep asking me how I’m going, as though they’re half expecting me to break in front of them.

I’m glad they ask.

I’ve realised it’s much nicer than not being asked.

How am I going?

I’m not sure.

Mostly I say, ‘as good as can be expected.’

I suppose that is true.

I’m not sure what the expectation is when you lose one of the most important, pivotal, beloved people in your life, but I feel like I’m doing as good as I can be – I’m waking up, and showering, and eating, and caring for my son, and driving my car, and running errands, and seeing family and friends, and cooking, and cleaning, and checking emails, and making phone calls, and planning, and doing all the little things people do that fill their days.

Some people don’t know what to say, which I somewhat understand, but here’s something else I’ve realised; it’s not that hard to say ‘I’m thinking of you’ or ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ or ‘I hope you are doing as good as can be expected’.

I have been showered in support, and love, and thoughts, and I feel them, wrapped around me. I am so appreciative of every single one of them.

But my Dad has died.

He’s gone.

And my life is forever changed.

Everything is kind of the same, but paradoxically, absolutely nothing is the same.

Nothing will be the way it used to be, ever again.

I am mostly fine, except for when I am not. I am mostly ok, except for when I am not.

Sometimes it slowly creeps up on me, like a looming dread in the pit of my stomach, and sometimes it hits me, bang out of nowhere, and I catch myself clutching my breath.

I’m as good as can be expected, but I am angry.

I’ve got a simmering rage inside me that I’m containing, but boy does it bubble. I’ve had to remind myself, every day, to ‘let it go’, that ‘it’s not worth it’, to ‘calm down’.

I’m as good as can be expected, but I feel robbed.

Robbed that Dad didn’t get enough time, that I didn’t get enough time, that we all didn’t get enough time. Robbed for what he’ll miss, for what I’ll miss, for what we’ll all miss.

It’s true that we don’t know our own strength until we need to; people have commended me for mine, which is lovely, but also slightly odd.

I’m ‘strong’ because being anything less seems like a disservice to Dad; to his honour, and legacy. I’m ‘strong’ because I have a child to raise, and a family to love, and being anything less seems like a disservice to them.

People see strength as ‘getting on with it’ – helping organise a funeral, and saying a eulogy without falling apart, and running yourself into the ground with errands, and doing as good as can be expected, and they say, ‘Good on her, look how strong she is,’ like you’re a show dog at a competition.

That is not strength.

That is autopilot, running on adrenalin.

Do you want to know what strength is?

Strength is not snapping someone’s neck in rage.

Strength is not losing your shit at someone else’s incompetence.

Strength is repeating the same story, over and over, to sympathising guests, when all you want to do is lie down in bed with the doona well above your head.

Strength is choosing not to be negative; choosing life, and beauty, and adventure, and wonder.

My Dad may have died, but that doesn’t give me the right to act like a dick.

So I am being as strong as I can, in the way I know how: by not being an arsehole. The world has enough of those.

Death evokes all sorts of feelings and reactions in people, and they’re all ok. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, or empathise. For the most part, people use it as an opportunity to think about themselves. At the centre of their own universe, they think of how death affects them. I’ve discovered, in this fortnight that feels like a year, who is really there for me, and who is not, who my true friends are, and who are just people I know.

There’s one small thing I’ve found exceptionally difficult: how quickly ‘is’ and ‘are’ become ‘was’ and ‘were’.

The instant change in tense is jarring.

And, there’s another thing: how the world just keeps spinning.

My Dad may have died, but that doesn’t mean the world stops.

I get that.

That is the way it should be.

It’s just a little unnerving, how everything goes on, swiftly, at full tilt.

It’s all very surreal; that this has happened, that this is life now.

I’m not convinced that anyone can truly know what it feels like to lose a parent, until they have lost one. And the well-wishes are pleasant, and the thoughts are kindly, but the advice is inordinate and borders on offensive. You either know, or you don’t, and if you don’t, you’re fortunate.

I’ve unwillingly become part of a club I don’t really want to be in but the other people are lovely, and they get it, and the biscuits are nice.

I’ve discovered there’s no real preparation for losing a loved one; whether it strikes you out of nowhere or you have a long lead-time – there’s no difference whatsoever. There’s only here or gone and until they are gone, they are here.

Predominantly, I understand there’s no right or wrong way to go about any of it. Being close to my family and friends has helped me, but some people might choose to shut off. I know that people mean well – and it’s better having people mean well than not having people at all. I recognise that, like with anything in life, there’s constant challenges and choices, and I get to choose my choices, and own them too. I acknowledge that grief is a bit like a wave, and I think I’ll be buoyed forever…

but I also know that I’ll still laugh

and love

and soar

and that the thirty-two years I got were better than thirty, or twenty-five, or ten, or none at all

and that so much of who I am is because of him.

So much. Of who I am. Is because. Of him.

Sandi Sieger14 Comments