The Future and Our Family

My role lately has become one of a quiet observer.

I think I have always been that way. There has always been a misconception that I am an extrovert, however, this is not an accurate representation of my personality. I am very much an introvert. I prefer people-watching as opposed to being involved. Now, there are times, depending on the group, where I can be more open and social, but my natural response with large groups is to sit back and observe.

Why am I telling you this?

Today, right now actually, I am sitting on an airplane.

Eric is to my left, and a complete stranger is to my right—which, again, I am not the type to make casual conversation with people I sit next to on these small aircrafts. 😂

But there is a family sitting in front of us.

From what I can gather, they are a multigenerational family. Parents, grandparents and adult, college-aged children. I’ve been quiet, listening and observing them—not like a stalker or anything, but truthfully, they aren’t the quietest bunch. They kind of take up more space on the plane with their conversations and interactions with each other.

I’ve heard where their children are going to school, where a few have graduated from. They speak with great pride as they talk about their children to the flight attendant.

And I can’t help but feel a sense of envy.

Their immediate family seems large. They aren’t all on this flight, but you can tell.

Traveling with your adult children.

What a treasure.

Traveling as a family. Parents getting to experience life with their adult children. Watching them grow into adults, hearing about their lives, celebrating their accomplishments, sitting beside them on an airplane as they go somewhere together.

I don’t think everyone recognizes what a treasure and a blessing that is.

But it is.

Over the past 20 years or so, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing a family similar to the one sitting in front of me right now. We’ll refer to them as the Y’s for this post.

Their family is large, boisterous at times, with many different personalities. They started as a family of four but have always been incredibly close and tight-knit. Now they are a family of ten, with spouses and grandchildren added to the party.

I’ve always found what they have to be special. Beyond words, honestly.

I’ve always felt honored to be loved and accepted into this special family. Knowing them and simply being a part of their circle makes you feel a special kind of love.

I’ve watched their family grow over the years, and I think somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I started imagining that maybe Eric and I would someday have something that felt like that, too.

Not exactly the same.

But our version of it.

Our family.

Our traditions.

Our vacations.

Our grandchildren.

Our own version of that kind of closeness.

And now back to Eric and I, and to weaving all of these thoughts together. Is that even possible anymore?

I think I always hoped we would reach this level of family unit at some point.

When Ryan got married, I quickly coveted the name GiGi. I wanted to claim it quickly because I knew there were going to be a lot of women with a title of grandma of some sort.

But I wanted to be GiGi.

More recently, after he and Ryleah ended their marriage, we talked even more about his future. His life. What might come next.

And the vision of the firepit enters my mind.

In January, we talked about that firepit.

How ten years down the road, we would be sitting across from one another in Georgia as the fire roared.

Different combinations came up.

Ryan—with a girlfriend he was planning to propose to.

Ryan—married with children.

Ryan—alone, single, but truly happy and having found his purpose in life.

There were different versions of the future, but every version had the same thing at its center.

Ryan was there.

It was a beautiful vision.

A beautiful goal for the future.

And as I sit here on this plane and listen to this family in front of me, I am reminded that it is no longer a part of our future story.

Sure, we have brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, best friends whose children feel like your nieces and nephews.

We have people we love.

But it will never be the same.

It will never be Pop, GiGi and the kids on vacation.

It will never be Ryan, his wife, Eric and I together on a plane for a trip to Europe.

It will never be the firepit ten years from now with Ryan sitting across from us.

It’s hard to truly express into words how difficult it is to process that loss.

My heart is broken in a way that it’s never been before.

After losing my own mother at a young age, I longed for finally creating my own family unit. Ten years ago, I accepted that couldn’t happen naturally.

But Ryan had given me a peace and a chance to still have that.

A chance to love in a way I had always wanted to love.

A chance to someday be GiGi.

A chance to imagine our family growing.

A chance to imagine a future that felt full.

And now that’s gone too.

I think that’s what I’m realizing as I sit here quietly watching this family.

I’m not just envious of them.

I’m grieving the fact that I once thought I would have something like this, too.

I am grieving the family I had.

But I’m also grieving the family I thought we were still becoming.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of grief.

Sometimes you aren’t just mourning the person who died.

You’re mourning every tomorrow you thought you still had with them.

And that’s where my mind goes back to the Y family.

For so many years, I’ve watched their family grow. I’ve watched their children become adults, spouses become part of the family, grandchildren come along. I’ve watched the way they gather and celebrate and simply enjoy being together.

I’ve always admired it.

I’ve always felt incredibly lucky that, in some way, they have allowed me to be a small part of it.

And I think, without even realizing it, I was watching them and imagining that maybe one day Eric and I would have something that felt like that with Ryan.

Not exactly the same.

But our version of it.

Our family.

Our traditions.

Our vacations.

Our grandchildren.

Our firepit.

I think that’s what hurts so much tonight.

I’m sitting here watching a family do something so completely ordinary, and I’m realizing how extraordinary I once thought that ordinary life would be.

And I don’t know what to do with that realization.

Because I can’t change the story.

I can’t make Ryan come back.

I can’t go back to January and sit beside that firepit in my imagination and tell him how much those conversations would eventually mean to me.

I can’t save the future we were talking about.

All I can do is sit here on this airplane, quietly watching this family in front of me, and let myself feel the sadness of it.

The sadness of the vacations we’ll never take.

The grandchildren we’ll never meet.

The family gatherings that will never include him.

The firepit that will never have Ryan sitting across from us.

The little name, GiGi, that I was so eager to claim.

All of it.

I think for a long time I believed grief was mostly about missing the person.

And it is.

God, I miss him.

But I’m beginning to understand that grief is also realizing just how much life was supposed to happen after the person was gone.

And tonight, that’s what I’m grieving.

Not just Ryan.

But Ryan’s future.

Our future with him.

The life we hadn’t gotten to live yet.

And maybe that’s why this family in front of me has caught my attention so much.

They have no idea what I’m sitting here thinking about.

To them, this is just a flight.

Just another family trip.

Just another conversation about school and graduation and where everyone is going next.

But I know better now.

These moments aren’t just moments.

They’re the things you think you’ll have forever.

Until suddenly, you don’t.

And I would give anything to have one more ordinary moment with Ryan.

Even if it was just sitting beside him on an airplane.

Even if he was talking too loudly.

Even if he was taking up too much space.

I would give anything for that.