The holidays. Oof. This season has been a rough one inside my heart, for no obvious reason except the most obvious one: life.

I have two teenagers whose childhoods, I am realizing with shattering clarity, are finite. I have two parents whose mental and physical declines are quietly devastating. And in the middle of that life sandwich is me, perpetually overwhelmed by, as writer Glennon Doyle says, all the “brutiful” moments that are slip, slip, slipping by, try as I might to stay very still and demand that everything (and everyone) else does, too.

They say that to shake your body of its anxiety and your mind of its rumination, it’s best to focus on others for a bit. But my god that’s no reprieve, because you all are going through it in ways that astound and humble me. My messages app is a catalogue of heart-wrenching conversations with people I adore about the worst that life throws at us: the loss of a child; marriage troubles; depression; addiction recovery; chronic conditions; unemployment; struggling kids; terrible exes.

Life is haaarrrd.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about friends whose nests are newly empty, and friends whose nests will never be empty because of special challenges their children face. I’ve been thinking about the people I love who are using superhuman levels of patience and energy to care for elderly, ailing parents. And the people I’ve never met who are trying to survive war, poverty, terrorism.

I’ve been thinking a ton about friends who lost a parent or a sibling this year, how their insides must be so raw with grief while blow-up Santas wave cluelessly from front yards and parties go on as if all invited are all who matter, even though some who matter aren’t there and haven’t been invited. Can’t ever be invited again.

I’ve been missing my kids’ Nana, who passed away a few months ago, and a troubled friend who died by suicide this summer. Since that particular tragedy, I’ve been repeatedly yanked back to the past, to long afternoon rides on the back of his Harley, every time I see someone on a motorcycle. He’s back for a moment then, alive in my mind with the rhythmic rumble of the stranger’s passing engine, and then vrooommmm—freshly gone again.

It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts.

What I’m saying is I’ve been overwhelmed a lot of the time, often with gratitude but also with heartbreak, with worry, and with the persistent dread of impending grief. Loving always comes with some kind of loss. And by “loss” I don’t just mean death, but change. We lose and gain ground—and people—to new dreams and changing seasons, to the way fortune turns and relationships fail, children grow and parents age. It’s totally natural. And it totally sucks.

All of this has made the regular stresses of December—present-buying, menu-planning, gift-wrapping—feel extra important and extra exhausting. And as I fret about all that I have and want to do right now, the clock tick-tick-shoves me toward someday, toward a different time and configuration of loved ones in a future holiday season that will for sure bring with it fresh waves of overwhelm, gratitude, anxiety, and heartbreak.

Life.

Last week I was chatting with my ex while our kids gathered their stuff at his house, when he pulled a small piece of paper out of a book he was holding. “So I was going through old books in my office and I found this,” he said, handing it to me with a grin. At a glance I knew what it was: The timing of contractions we’d kept track of when I went into labor with Kostyn, our firstborn.

“Ohhh, wow,” I smiled back, taking the slip of paper I hadn’t seen or thought about in 16 and a half years. My heart swelled with sweet memory as I scanned the times, written in red ink. The list began with “12:27”: I’d gone into labor just after lunch on a Friday afternoon, the day after Kostyn’s due date.

The handwriting switched to Chris’s later that evening. “I can tell when you took over, right here,” I pointed. He nodded, still smiling. “They must have been getting painful then.”  

I had labeled the stronger contractions in the afternoon and evening with an exclamation mark. After 8 p.m., there were no more exclamation marks, likely because all of them hurt. By 9:30 that night, Chris started timing the minutes between contractions. Probably doctor’s orders, though neither of us could remember if that was the case.

Seven minutes. Six minutes. Four minutes. Four minutes. Two minutes. We must have freaked out when the interval shrunk to two minutes and we were still at home. But the agony and the ecstasy were far from over. The times continued on the back; I flipped it over and looked at the last entry: 11:27. “We must have headed to the hospital then,” I said. “I remember it was late at night when we went.”

“Yeah. I was surprised how long your labor was at home!” he said. “Longer than I thought.”  

Just then Kostyn walked over. “What’s this?” they asked, glancing at it with eyebrows raised, puzzled by the columns of meaningless times their parents were so excitedly talking about. I quickly explained what it was, and Kostyn smiled and looked closer.

It was surreal to see my son perusing the written record of pain caused by their entrance into the world. Pain I can’t even remember at this point. Pain I’d willingly endure again to get that same child in my arms again. Even though I know it means that one day, if all goes well, they will grow up and leave me behind.  

On the day I scrawled those times, I couldn’t have imagined who I’d be now. Who Kostyn would be. Who Evan would be. Where we’d all be. How fast time would fly.

Kostyn turned and walked away, and I held out the paper for Chris to take back. But he waved me away. “I thought you’d want to keep it,” he said, still smiling.

“I do!” Not only is it a memento from one of the best days of my life, but an illustration of the natural link between love and pain. And proof of which one is stronger.

It took a week of staring at it on the kitchen counter for me to realize it’s also a tremendous reminder of how hurt and fear tend to be meticulously catalogued by my heart (in blood-red ink! With exclamation marks!) while ease, contentment and anticipation—the quiet between the storms—are only occasionally noted. (Seven minutes. Six minutes. Four minutes. Four minutes. Two minutes.)

But they’re here, all over my life story, and I need to remember that, too.