From Hurt to Healing

By: Jeni Nussbaum

When I was 22, a senior in college in Chicago and getting ready to graduate, I was doing nothing but studying and planning. So much planning. What would I do to supplement my internship? Would I stay in the city? What was my five-year plan? What would I do if I hated this path? The chaotic class schedules, the stress over final grades, the plans—all meant nothing.

The week before graduation was Mother’s Day. I had gone home the weekend before to visit family and decided, since I had already seen my mom and given her a gift, I wouldn’t come home again. Instead, I planned to see her the weekend of graduation. We had plans: a girls’ day downtown. Shopping, restaurants, and a night in before the graduation events. A weekend I was exceedingly excited for and had been working toward for four years.

On that Mother’s Day Sunday, I heard an early morning knock on my apartment door. I looked through the peephole, and it was my dad. Why was he at my door, two and a half hours from home? I opened the door with a smile, only to be met with a face of absolute pity. Through tears, he said, “Jeni, I’m so sorry. Your mom died this morning.”

Every plan I had ever made—meticulously thought out, put on paper and in motion—was tossed out the window of that tiny one-bedroom apartment.

For the following years, I hated making plans. I assumed I’d get my hopes up and look forward to them, only for someone or something to bring it all crashing down. They would either be ruined, or I’d cancel before they could happen. I’d go on a beach vacation, and a hurricane would hit. A home project would flop. A new career path would turn out lackluster. I found myself not meeting up with friends, not booking flights. I tried to label myself as “go with the flow,” but really it was fear of disappointment. Was the universe out to get me—or was I only focusing on the bad in things?

Fourteen years to the day after losing my mom, I was reflecting on life without her and what her opinion might be of how I’m living. I know she’d still be my best friend, and she’d be head over heels for her grandkids. Most importantly, she would want me to be happy. To take the risks. To surround myself with people who reflect kindness, selflessness, and decency. And to make the plans.

Plan the vacations, the dates, the game nights, and everything in between—big and small, on weekends and Wednesday evenings. Pivot when things don’t go the way you want. There’s opportunity in every calendar event. Your mindset, and who you’re sharing that time with, is what makes the difference.

I listened to The Beatles’ Let It Be on repeat that first year of grief, and it remains a gentle reminder to this day. Plans change. We’re dealt darkness and light. But we also have those beautiful souls we choose to let into our lives, offering wisdom and support.