When Joy (Sweet) and Sadness (Sours) Collide, Combine, Compound and Compliment…
How grief, gratitude and presence remind us what really matters…and who really matters.
It’s been a week.
The kind that humbles us. That catches us unexpectedly in the chest. That reminds us, in the deepest and sometimes most painful of ways, just how much we feel.
In the community I’m part of, co-created by Keith Ferrazzi and Ronen Olshansky, there’s a beautiful simplicity to how we share what we’re experiencing. We call them our “Sweets” and our “Sours.”
Sweets are the moments that bring joy.
Sours are the moments that challenge us.
Both are welcome. Both are real. And last week, I had both, in the most profound way.
For those who know me or have shared Zoom space with me, you’ll know my beloved Maine Coon cat, Womble. For over a decade, he’s been an ever-present, tail-flicking part of my life and most of my calls! Womble wasn’t just a pet. He was family. One half of “The Management,” along with his sister. He was stability. Companionship. Presence.
And last week, I learned he had the most aggressive form of cancer a cat can have.
(Major Sour.)
The news floored me. But what floored me more was the depth of my response. The wave of emotion caught me off-guard. And as I sat with it, three thoughts emerged:
- Why hadn’t I fully realised how much he meant to me?
- How had I missed the constant, quiet strength of his companionship?
- And how on earth had I been lucky enough to share my life with a being who gave so freely, so consistently, without ever asking anything in return?
(Major Sweet.)
This, of course, led me back to memories of my mother. Sitting with her three years ago as she transitioned from this life. Holding her hand for three days and nights. Talking. Laughing. Letting the weight of everything unimportant fall away.
And then realising, for the first time in my adult life, that I was fully present. Not performing. Not fixing. Just… being. There. With her.
That was the gift.
(Major Sweet again.)
And yet, somewhere in that quiet presence, I also found a truth I hadn’t fully faced:
I hadn’t really grieved. Not then. Not fully. Not like I thought I had.
(Major Sour.)
And so I sat with it. With all of it. With the grief and the gratitude. The joy and the sorrow. The presence and the loss. And I started to notice something else; something I know will land for many of you reading this:
The people who offer us the most… don’t always ask for anything in return. They’re not loud. They’re not demanding. They’re just there. Steady. Solid. Ours.
And we don’t always see them.
Until maybe one day, we can’t see them anymore.
That’s why I do the work I do. To help women (and men) see more clearly, before it’s too late. To notice what’s really going on in the relationships that shape us. To break the habits of detachment, self-protection and over-functioning long enough to feel.
To feel the grief.
To feel the love.
To feel present.
So here’s a small question that may land big:
Who in your life have you stopped seeing, simply because they’ve always been there?
And how might you honour them, acknowledge them, thank them… before they’re not?
You don’t need a grand gesture.
Just a moment of presence.
Just a few heartfelt words perhaps.
Because those quiet souls?
They might just be the greatest gifts you’ve ever been given.
And sometimes, the most radical act of love… is to see them.