Love Letter takeover: The trauma wave (trigger warning)

Hello beautiful human,

In this life, it is guaranteed that hard shit will happen.
Sharing that hard shit with each other can make us feel less alone.
This is why I’ve shared hard things from my life with you over the years.

Brittany from Team Dirty went through something really hard when she was 13, and so when she asked if she could share it with you, I didn’t hesitate. It was an automatic yes. When someone is generous enough to open up about their life, especially the hard stuff, I pay attention. There is wisdom and healing and love and connection, not only for the people receiving it, but for the person sharing it.

I will preface this email with a trigger warning. If you do not feel comfortable reading about a car accident or a child's death, skip this one. ❤️‍🩹  ❤️‍🩹

Over to you, Brittany.

---

Thank you, Molly, for holding space. It’s an honor to share in these Love Letters. I typically tell fun stories involving my kiddos that help inspire families to eat more plants, but today, I’m taking you to my past.

Have you ever had trauma resurface like a wave that’s gentle and crushing?

On August 13th, 1998, I was 13 years old, and I was in a car accident with two of my closest friends, also 13.

A few weeks ago, I was texting my daughter, Kyndel, while she was at a park. Her 13th birthday was the following day, so I wrote:

“Love you have so much fun on your last day being a kid.”

As I set the phone down, a wave of trauma snuck up on me gently.

The last day of being a kid? You were with Melinda on her last day of being alive.

Melinda lost her life in that devastating car accident back in 1998 at the tender age of 13.

The trauma wave suddenly felt crushing.

My hands started trembling. My breath became heavy, and my heart started racing. I put my hand on my heart, and took a few deep breaths.

When you’re 13, you think you know everything and have really good ideas. But when you’re 40 with a 13-year-old, you realize how young, precious, and naive we were at that age. I knew looking into Kyndel’s eyes when she came home, and seeing myself and Melinda in her, was going to be hard.

Later that evening, I was making this recipe, and I came back to what I had texted my daughter.

“Have so much fun on your last day being a kid.”

The trauma wave crushed me again as I flashed back to 1998.

I could see the fear in the other passenger’s eyes as I walked around the upside-down vehicle. I could hear Billy Idol’s “Mony Mony” still eerily playing on the radio. I could feel the desperation and horror in my bones as I ran a mile to find help.

My daughter interrupted my thoughts when she came into the kitchen with the biggest smile. She asked about doing something with a few friends. I told her that was fine, and she cheerfully skipped out of the kitchen.

The trauma wave receded.

The sparkle in my daughter's eyes about having fun with her friends helped me temporarily replace those traumatic memories with joyous ones.

I thought about how much fun Melinda and I had in the hours before the accident.

The way we swung on the swings with the sound of electricity buzzing on that hot summer day.
The way our hands calloused as we played on the monkey bars.
The way we laughed as we rebelliously took turns driving a vehicle we never should have had.
The way she looked back at me and smiled behind her brown, curly ‘90s bangs, as she fishtailed on the red sand road.

The trauma wave receded further as more memories surfaced from our years of friendship, like swimming, summer camp, girl talk, doodling in our yearbooks, and singing Sarah McLachlan.

Then I realized Melinda had the best last day, full of joy and friendship, and I got to experience it with her.

At any given moment, you could be a part of someone's last day. How will we make the very most of our days with ourselves and with each other?

We’re all riding the waves of trauma.
Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes crushing.

Through it all, those waves move us. For me, they've taught me how to experience soul-deep gratitude for the smallest things, like hearing my kids laugh, complimenting a fellow Dirty on their food pic, or the perfect loaf of sourdough bread. I enjoy these things for myself and for Melinda.

Thank you for reading my story and being a part of my life. Sharing your hard moments with even one person can make a world of difference, no matter how long ago it was, because trauma doesn’t tell time.

Brittany

On the 20-year anniversary of the accident, I created this memorial. It was the first time I made myself feel the weight of the situation. I sat surrounded by her favorite color (purple), listened to Sarah McLachlan, and looked at clippings and memorial pages I’d tucked away for decades. It hurt like hell, but it marked the beginning of real healing. If there’s a difficult part of your past gnawing at you and you’re ready to face it, I encourage you to give yourself the space to feel so you can start to heal.