Compassion & Crumbl Cookie

It’s been weeks since I last slept through the night. Running on fumes, I sit in the hallway, leaning against my five-year-old son Rowan’s bedroom door, talking with my parents. “I’m not okay, but I’m okay that I’m not okay,” I say firmly. “I just need time to step back, rest, and find my voice,” I add, trying to sound reassuring. “You’re not quitting your job, are you?” my mom asks, her voice tight with worry. I hear my dad in the background, his voice rising, “Caitlin, I need to speak with you, don’t—" I hang up before he can finish, needing a moment of quiet from everything that isn’t my own voice.

The emotional chaos of my childhood and young adulthood has led me to let my parents heavily influence my choices—often at the expense of my own confidence and self-worth. My father, prone to fear, has always urged me to make the “safe” choice. But for me, the “safe” choice has often just meant the “familiar” choice. I attend the university where my mother works, earning both undergraduate and graduate degrees in fields my parents are experts in. Yet through all my academic achievements, I never learn how to have emotionally attuned relationships with others—or, most importantly, with myself.

As a result, I develop a chronic pain condition that lasts over a decade and go through several intense mental health crises. I’ve always felt isolated in my struggles, without any real way to process my suffering. So, by abruptly hanging up the call, I’m finally taking the wheel in the middle of a hurricane. Just as I start to drift off to sleep, I notice an email from my dad with the subject line: I really need your help.

My dad tells me he understands how trauma has shaped my life—he’s lived through his own severe emotional trauma since childhood. He admits, “Caitlin, I don’t have anyone to help me, and I’ve given up hope that things will ever change.” His voice fills with desperation as he adds, “I’ve tried to look out for others all my life, but not one has ever looked out for me. I need someone to help me, not make me feel like I’m their problem.” I start crafting my response, my heart aching to find words that might ease his pain. Commending him, I say, “Dad, thank you for sharing your truth with me for the first time; “this is the first step.” But then I pause, realizing no words can fully express my compassion—my desire to bear my father’s pain alongside him.

The next morning, I set out to show him how deeply I care. I go to the used bookstore 2nd and Charles to buy two books that have been instrumental in my healing journey: The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture by Gabor Maté and Story Worthy by Matthew Dicks. The first reshapes my understanding of trauma’s impact on physical and mental health, while the second is my guide to freeing myself from trauma’s hold through storytelling. I find myself engaging in what others might call impulse buying—but what I lovingly refer to as "spirit shopping"—thoughtfully choosing items that speak to my soul, buying them alongside these two transformative books.

At home, the compassion kit starts coming together. I attach a Post-it story to each item, hoping to encourage my dad to visit me and Rowan. On a bag of gummy burgers, I write a note about Rowan’s endearingly unique way of speaking: “Help Rowan say, ‘I picked boogers out of my nose,’ instead of ‘I picked burgers out of my nose.’” A Serenity Prayer mug carries the note: “Pray this every day for strength.” And a vintage Rainbow Brite tumbler reads, “The rainbow after the hurricane is yet to come.” I hope that these thoughtfully curated gifts, along with the guidebooks, will help my father know he is worthy of love, and give him the inspiration to craft his own healing journey. I send the kit priority mail and return home to my unrelenting thoughts.  

It’s Friday of Labor Day weekend. With sleep still evading me, I snuggle with Rowan on the sofa, binge watching Bluey. I hear an unexpected knock at the door. I open it to find my dad holding a duffle bag. “I’m not crazy,” I lament.  “I know you’re not,” my dad replies, "I've been in the same situation.” He shares his experience earlier in the summer of severe sleep deprivation, resulting in his two-week stay in the behavioral health ward at the local hospital. My dad’s doctors collaborate with him to find the right combination of classic mood stabilizers that prove effective in helping him sleep.  With his encouragement, I book a same day appointment with my doctor, and before the day is over, I have the prescription that I hope will restore my sanity. And for the first time in weeks, I slip into deep sleep and stay asleep, gladly escaping the urgency of my thoughts.   

The next morning, I wake with a renewed spirit. After my workout, I’m walking past Crumbl Cookie. I pause, soaking in the irresistible aromas wafting from the store. It’s been over a year since I’ve sworn off the sugary monstrosities, vowing to remain steadfast in my fitness journey. Yet, in that moment, I recognize the downfall to being too restrictive—too regimented—and choose to give myself the grace to be human. I return home with the delectable treats and offer a cookie to my dad. “No, I can’t,” he replies, with shame in his voice, but yearning in his eyes. I reply, “Dad, sometimes you have to let yourself crumble in order to rebuild into a more authentic version of yourself.”