Go Anyway

I almost didn’t go.

This summer has already taken me across states, through tents, in and out of hotels, to family I love and family I’m learning to love with boundaries. I was tired. My kids were restless. My soul? Pulled thin in all directions.

But sometimes, life leaves a whisper.
“Go anyway.”

So we boarded a train to Chicago with my best friend from childhood and our visiting friend from Greece. Now as parents. Four kids. Three time zones converging for a 36-hour memory-making mission. It wasn’t a luxury vacation—it was water taxis, Chinatown fans and toy swords, walking Michigan Avenue in sweaty clothes, city chaos, and Ed Debevic’s sass on full display.

And it was magic.

My daughters met the children of my lifelong friend and one I hadn’t seen since we were teens. They teased like cousins, melted into each other’s joy, and fought like they’d always known one another. I laughed on a train and remembered how it felt to be young and wild and full of possibility.

We met our beloved foreign exchange student from 33 years ago—my prom date, now a grown man visiting the U.S. with his own son for the first time. After spending a few weeks with his host family, we were lucky to connect before they flew back to Greece. His host parents, whom I hadn’t seen since my youth, were part of the reunion too. Seeing them again brought a wave of warmth and realization. They were one of the only families I knew growing up who were open about adoption—having adopted their two oldest children and welcomed several foreign exchange students into their home over the years. As an adoptee myself, and now an adoptive parent, their quiet modeling of inclusive, chosen family made more of an impact on me than I ever understood back then. Catching up with them was unexpectedly moving—like closing a loop I hadn’t known was open. 

After breakfast and exploring Millennium Park, we hugged our goodbyes with misty eyes and made our way to the lake to soak our tired bodies in Lake Michigan before heading back to the station.

And then, just as quickly as joy arrived, grief knocked. A casual glance at social media on the train back stopped me in an instant.

A dear family friend back home was killed while riding his bike to work. A man who had already lost his wife in 2020. A man we had wrapped into our family and whose youngest son we had loved and supported. That boy—now just 12—has lost both of his parents.

There are no words. Only a sharp inhale. And the sudden, soul-shaking reminder:
We don’t know how long we have.

This is why I went.

Even though I was tired.
Even though I’m behind on work and life and unanswered texts.
Even though I’ve disappointed some people this summer and I have prioritized new over familiar in some instances.

Because these moments—the laughter, the healing, the sweaty hugs, the lunch in Chinatown—these are the ones we remember.

And I want my children to remember a mother who chose them. Who showed them how to love. Who taught them that family comes in many forms—and that we get to define what connection looks like.

I want them to see that healing is not always tidy. That sometimes it’s trains and lakes and old friends who make you laugh so hard you forget what you were grieving for just a second.

So here’s what I know now:

I don’t need more time.
I need more presence.

I don’t need to explain every absence.
I need to honor my energy.

I don’t need to wait for the perfect trip, the perfect season, or the perfect reunion.
I need to show up when the whisper says go anyway.

Create the memories to carry you through the hard times. Live your life. Love your people and love them some more.

- Charlynn