Grieving the Things That Never Were
Sometimes, it’s not the people or relationships we’ve lost that hurt the most—it’s the hopes, dreams, and expectations that never came to be. How do you pick up the pieces and try again and again?
For the fifth time, don’t tell me it’s not personal because it is.
Last month, I was preparing for my second round of interviews with a Fortune 100 company. I had such a good feeling about this job—everything about it was perfect: timing, location, salary, and culture. This was the big break I had worked up to and had been waiting for; the kind of place I so desperately wanted to get my foot in the door with.
And, without a hitch, I made it to the final round of interviews.
In between, I imagined what my new life post-sabbatical would be like in the city I had wanted to relocate to for a while. I casually perused available flats and Googled what the commute would be like. I wondered if I’d purchase that Volvo without delay or if I could get away with a mint green Vespa and a pink helmet for a little while. I imagined the dinners and cocktails I’d be having with Kyle on school nights; finding a home for tennis; new groups of friends; weekend drives up and down the Pacific Northwest; maybe I’d buy a little cottage on the coast; maybe fall in love; and perhaps this would take me somewhere completely unexpected. The possibilities seemed…endless.
The final interview came and went; two follow-ups in, I realized I had been fully ghosted.
What is this? Modern dating?
When has it ever been appropriate for recruiters to vanish into thin air?
Actually, when has it ever been okay for anyone to vanish into thin air because they can’t have difficult conversations?
What the actual fuck?
About a week and a half into the silence, I sat on the veranda of my parents' flat and wept. For the fifth time, I figuratively took the needle and popped my big balloon of possibilities and hopes. I finally, finally, after all of this grief business found it in me to dream big and think big instead of taming my inner fire because I was too afraid to fail or for things to, again, “not work out”.
How dare I dream?
How dare I hope?
How dare I reach?
How dare I think what I brought to the table was enough?
I mean, who did I think I was?
All of this, probed and prodded by my Inner Censor.
This kind of rejection cracked open tender places, making me revisit things that never were and were never going to be: starting with the rest of my life that never was with Nickolas and the loss of my best friend, Jess.
In this lifetime, there wouldn’t be a third wedding anniversary, a child, or the house renovation we often dreamed of—complete with kid-friendly modifications. Nickolas was never going to be 34. There wouldn’t be an “us” for the rest of year 26 or the rest of whatever time I had left on Earth. Our living version of love would expire in 2015. Nothing more, nothing less.
The same could be said about Jess, my best friend who would never live out her 20s alongside me. There would no longer be girls’ trips—especially the one we’d planned to Korea when my parents eventually moved back—no late-night vent sessions after long days at work, and no weekend sleepovers like the ones that started in sixth grade. Neither of us would see our individual lives blossom and fall into place after all that had transpired over the years. There was nothing more, nothing less.
The never-weres and what could have beens hold such weight because they mattered deeply. And every time it wasn’t, the insurmountable heartbreak was inevitable.
Only because it mattered.
Only because it carried weight.
Only because I really, really wanted it.
At this moment of fragility, vulnerability, and uncertainty, I miss them more than usual.
But truth be told, lately, as a woman navigating her mid-to-late 30s, I miss my Jess even more. I think many of us with best friends from our formative years can relate—those friendships carry a unique connection that feels irreplaceable.
Nevertheless, I knew this before writing, but putting it on paper makes me truly feel the weight of the voids they left behind and the barren soil in my garden where they once were.
Yet, it is through these significant relationships and profound losses that I’ve come to understand the depths of love. In this lifetime, I have loved and been loved. I’m not sure there’s anything greater than that—no amount of money, tangibles, or experiences could ever replace or outdo love.
As I find my way back to my centered self, I am reminded that life rarely unfolds on my timeline and rarely looks how I imagined it would. Time and time again, I am shown that it often turns out to be so much more, so much better, so much more full and vibrant than I could have dreamed or imagined.
Only by embracing this truth can I stay open to the boundless possibilities of this lifetime and the magic that happens in between. So, perhaps the little cottage on the coast will have to wait. Or maybe it’s not a cottage at all but instead, a cozy flat overlooking Lumphini Park in Bangkok. I’ll never know until that day comes and my only job is to live it out wholly and authentically.
For now, my journey continues with another flight, another city, another interview, another opportunity. That’s not so bad. As I grieve the things that never were, I remind myself to stay open to the things that could be and will be.
Possibilities. Magic. Dream big. Reach far.
