“Our parents may be the most important unfinished business of our lives.” – Michael P. Nichols, PhD

My parents were only teenagers, swept up in a wild, whirlwind love when they brought me into the world. I was born into a home thick with emotions, passionate and unpredictable. An environment where joy and chaos held hands in a constant, shifting dance. It was like being buckled into a roller coaster ride. The kind with endless twists and plummeting drops.

Slowly creeping up a steep climb, each click and clank echoing like a countdown. Each second a calm before the storm. With every inch upward, anticipation coiled tighter. With eyes closed, not knowing when the bottom would drop out from underneath me. When we reach the top, will I be terrified or excited about what was coming next? Would I need to keep my eyes closed, fearing what I would see? Before I answer my thoughts, quickly, the seat drops out from under me. Frozen in mid air, I gasp as the coaster takes full control. Screams of fear, joy, and elation, bounce in and out of my ears. The world blurs around me. Parts of the ride flashing as I daringly, barely squint my eyes open.

My mom and dad, pulling the levers of intensity behind the ride. The highs dizzying, the lows were equally fierce. Sometimes, eruptions, waves of anger and passion crashing together. Then, times of stillness when not a word was spoken for a day or so. From my mom’s first marriage to her second, one constant remained: the undercurrent of emotions ran deep and strong. A hidden force, a strong heartbeat pulsing beneath the surface of daily life.

It makes sense to me now why calmness and consistency always bored me. My nervous system did not recognize it. I cherish and foster experiences and relationships like this now. Especially, as I creep closer to 50. I seek peace. But, in life, especially before I had my son, I sought dangerous adventures. Many of which I prefer not to mention. Somehow, those experiences always made me feel calm. In chaos, my body felt more at ease.

I would climb mountains like Half Dome in Yosemite, almost 9,000 feet high. Reach the summit, dangle my feet off the edge of the rock face and feel no fear. I remember the sensation of gravity pulling at me as I leaned over the edge. Situations that would normally make others uneasy, actually attracted me. They made me feel more alive.

I understand why now. I guess from the very start, I came into this world, physiologically experiencing extreme moods, tidal waves of emotion.

I was born on January 1st, a date that has always felt uniquely significant to me. It wasn’t just the beginning of a new year. It was the day I shared with my mom and my grandfather—her father. Our birthdays were all tied together on Jan. 1st, creating a connection that always felt like fate. Celebrating on the same day made me feel as if we were linked. As though God had orchestrated it all.

Whenever I had to mention my birthdate, people would smile. This happened whether at the grocery store or the DMV. People would light up and say, “You’re a New Year’s baby!” It is a small, seemingly ordinary moment. Yet, it adds a layer of warmth to my birthday. It brings magic that I carry with me through the years. That simple acknowledgment, that extra excitement and smile from a stranger, makes the day feel even more special.

But there was another layer of significance to that day, one that carried both extreme joy and extreme sorrow.

I was born on my mom’s 18th birthday. My dad, just slightly younger than her, was at the hospital, filled with pure happiness on my arrival. My mom has always said that my dad was over the moon, thrilled to be holding his newborn daughter. I have often been told that I was the apple of his eye. I felt that way when I was a little girl. We always an unspoken connection. I imagine his smile when I was born. I picture his sense of pride. He must have had an overwhelming feeling of becoming a father for the first time.

But then, in the middle of that joy, came a devastating phone call to him in the hospital. His older brother—the oldest of seven, a strong force, the brother who was a hero in my dad’s eyes—had been shot and killed. My uncle had been living in California, where he led the Hessian Motorcycle Club. To my dad, his brother, who was larger than life, someone he looked up to with admiration and awe. He was the oldest of 7 siblings and my dad was the youngest. Even though my dad’s brother, from what I have been told, had an intense presence of fear. My dad thought the world of him. And, in an instant, my dad’s world flipped from pure elation to heartbreak while standing in the hospital that day. The twists and turns of life plummeting in a moment.

I’ve often wondered what that experience must have felt like for both of my parents. My dad, cradling his newborn daughter in his arms. At the same time, he was grappling with the sudden loss of his mentor, his hero, his older brother. It must have been an emotional collision of the deepest kind. On the one hand, he was experiencing the greatest joy of his life, the birth of his first child. On the other, he was confronted with profound grief, the kind of loss that leaves an indelible mark. I try to imagine the weight of it all, the overwhelming contrast between joy and devastation in that single instant.

And then there was my mom. She held her newborn daughter and was undoubtedly exhausted from childbirth. She processed not only the elation of becoming a mother but also the loss of her brother-in-law. She needed to comfort her husband, who was crumbling inside. What a strange dance of emotions it must have been for them both. They faced an impossible balance between welcoming new life and saying goodbye to one so dear. The unpredictability of life and death.

To be continued…