Here’s the thing. Being a parent comes with a lot of dread. We aren’t unique or special or especially burdened in any way. Some people perceive us as such, because we’ve been through some ish, but watching a kid fight cancer isn’t any more awful than the possibility you could lose yours tomorrow to, I don’t know, a distracted driver, or a wayward grape or something, or even lose them in ten years to an addiction, a controlling relationship, or their changed ideology. The possibility of losing mine isn’t more real than the possibility of losing yours, and sometimes loss happens long before death. Life and the things that define living are so fragile. The only safety net any of us have is ensuring we never plunge into loss and grief with regrets for which we can’t make amends. Some may call it morbid, living with the acute knowledge of fragility, of how fleeting happy moments are, of always preparing for the worst things by stockpiling memories of the best things. I think it’s worth it to allow dread to filter in, because it deepens shadows to sharpen the image of joy. To love is to guarantee grief. I don’t think we talk enough about the ways in which dread helps us live more exuberantly, and how it’s only a problem if it keeps us from living at all.
At least that’s what I tell myself when the Dreads strike. They are as much a reminder of what could be, as they are a mandate to live in such a way as to not experience regret if the things they whisper should come true.
