Before you go (1)

PART 1: When Love and Irritation Reside in the Same Room

This is one of those texts that doesn’t come from the head. It comes from an internal pressure. A need to express something that would otherwise remain stuck inside.

To understand. To not carry it all alone. To put words to something that doesn't really want to become words.

Or just to be honest. 

---

There's a particular kind of tiredness that can't be slept away. Not even after a whole night. Not even after several days.

It doesn't reside in the body in the way one might think. It sits deeper. Like a constant hum beneath the surface.

And sometimes you only notice it when you're in the middle of a laugh.

"Why are you laughing so much, Nina?"

It's a sentence that shouldn't hurt. But it does. Not for what it says, but for all it carries with it.

I was there yesterday. My father's 70th birthday. People around the table. Laughter. Food. Voices. An attempt at something that is supposed to be normal.

And my mother.

My mother who is so sick. My mother who is so thin now. My mother who has end-stage COPD. My mother who has just found out there's a tumor in her breast again.

My mother who might not have much time left.

And yet.

There, in the midst of it all, she is exactly who she has always been.

---

That's what's so hard to explain to someone who isn't living it.

That a person can be on the verge of death and at the same time be irritating, controlling, sharp, critical.

That illness doesn't automatically transform someone into mild, reconciled, gentle.

It doesn't.

And somewhere, without admitting it, I had probably believed that.

That something would let go. That she would become... kinder.

But no.

Instead:

"My, what a broad back she has." "Keep your feet still." Small comments. Small jabs. Small adjustments to the world around her.

And I know this pattern so well.

It starts small. I ignore it. I think: not now. Not today. It's a birthday. She's sick. Be bigger.

But it builds up.

And somewhere there's a limit. An invisible, inner line.

And when it's crossed…

it happens.

I reply. Not even harshly. Just enough to make a point.

And she replies:

"Mimöschen." 

A German word. In diminutive form. Like a flower that sheds its leaves at the slightest touch. That's what I was, according to her.

The word hangs in the air. A little too light. A little too quick. A little too familiar.

And there I sit again, in that familiar mix of:

guilt and irritation.

---

It's the most confusing combination of all.

Because if I were just angry, it would be simpler.

If I were just sad, it would also be clearer.

But this?

Being both at the same time?

Feeling:

"That wasn't okay"

and at the same time:

"But she's sick... I should be more patient."

It pulls in two directions.

---

And in the midst of all this, another thought came to me.

One that didn't come from my head.

But from something deeper.

"I want her to find peace."

That thought scared me at first.

Because what does that really mean?

That I'm giving up? That I'm letting her go? That I'm not fighting?

But the more I sat with it, the more I understood:

it's not resignation.

It's love in a different form.

---

Because wanting someone to find peace is not the same as wanting them to disappear.

It's not wanting them to suffer. Neither in body. Nor in that inner resistance that some people carry their whole lives.

---

My mother has always been strong.

But not in that gentle way.

More in the way that needs to be in control, needs to instruct, needs to adjust the world, needs to have the last word...

to feel safe within it.

And now that her body is failing her, that doesn't disappear.

It becomes clearer, rather.

---

I also notice something within myself.

How my own development – what I've learned over the years through therapy, through spiritual work, through trying to understand myself

is being truly tested yet again.

At the kitchen table. In small comments. In glances.

---

It's easy to feel conscious when no one is pushing your buttons.

It's something entirely different to be conscious when every nerve in your body reacts.

---

I've understood one thing very clearly in the past few days:

this is no longer about changing her.

That race is run.

Not because it's hopeless. But because that's not where the focus needs to be.

---

The focus is elsewhere now.

On me.

In a way that actually makes it possible to stay present.

---

Because the truth is:

I can't be there if I break down every time.

I can't be present if I'm filled with irritation.

I can't carry love if I also carry too much unresolved reaction.

---

So something in me is adjusting.

Noticeably.

---

I'm starting to see her even more clearly.

As a human being.

With her patterns. Her fear. Her history.

---

And I'm starting to see myself more clearly too.

How quickly I can still go on the defensive when the pressure becomes too intense, too frequent, at a pace I can't keep up with. How much isn't just about now, but about our entire relationship.

---

That doesn't mean I should accept everything.

That's important to state.

Because this is a fine line.

Understanding someone doesn't mean accepting everything.

---

I'm now practicing something harder than speaking up.

Not engaging at all.

---

Not responding to every comment from her. Not trying to correct, explain, win.

---

It sounds simple.

It's not.

Because the body wants something else.

It wants to react. It wants to speak up. It wants to be seen.

---

But sometimes strength is saying less.

---

That doesn't mean I always succeed.

Yesterday I didn't.

And that's okay too.

---

There's another thing that has become clear.

Something practical, almost brutally concrete.

I live two hours away.

It's not possible to just "drop by."

Every time I go there, it's a journey.

And that changes everything.

---

It means I can't be there all the time.

And it means every visit needs to have a framework.

Otherwise, it won't work.

---

I wish it were simpler.

That I could just be there all the time. That it was just beautiful. That we just held hands and said what was never said.

---

But reality looks different.

It is:

raw, human, sometimes ugly and sometimes warm. Sometimes all at once.

---

And it is precisely there that something real can emerge.

In what actually is.

---

I don't know exactly what this time will look like.

I don't know how much time we have left.

I don't know how it will end.

---

But I know one thing.

I don't want to leave this with:

just irritation, just guilt.

---

I want to leave it with:

honesty, presence, and as much love as can actually fit into what is.

---

To sit silently beside her without saying anything at all.

To leave earlier so I can come back again.

Not to answer, even though everything in me wants to.

To actually answer because I'm only human.

---

All of this is allowed to exist.

---

And amidst all this, I still carry that sentence within me:

"I want her to be able to pass in peace."

And if I do this my way – without denying anything, without forcing anything –

then it can come true.

Not just for her.

But for me too.

---

There are more layers to this that aren't immediately visible.

I am not alone in my experience, even if it sometimes feels that way.

My dad is sitting there too. More and more, I notice how something in him has changed. As if a complete picture is slowly falling into place. After all these years of hard work, responsibility, everyday life – where much just rolled along – he now sees more clearly. Feels more clearly. Reacts more clearly.

And yet he stays. Just like me.

My sister chose a different path. She cut off contact years ago. Completely. And she refuses to resume it.

There's something in me that understands that. That can even feel: I could have done the same thing.

I could have opted out.

But it's as if that's not an option in my body.

I don't know exactly why. Not yet.

But something in the feeling says no. It refuses in the same way my dad doesn't leave. In the same way my sister refuses. She speaks a different language in all of this. A language of distance, of protection, of boundaries. And behind that there are also things that are not said here. Layers, events, experiences that shape choices – where the truth is never with just one person.

Anyway - this language is also true. And perfectly fine.

Before my mom got so sick, one of my spiritual teachers told me that I wouldn't be able to step into my full strength – as long as my mom remained in my life in this way.

She herself had broken up with her mother.

And I heard it. I understood it. A part of me knew there was truth in it.

And yet – and I know it's polarizing, especially within spiritual circles and yes, even within me –

I remain.