Growing Pains
During my senior year of college, I invited my little sister, Annabelle, and little brother, Jameson, over to my apartment for a sleepover. We did blindfold makeup, made popcorn from scratch with kernels, and stayed up late. In the morning, they had to head back home. I watched them pull out of the parking lot in Annabelle’s little blue Mazda, which made an awfully loud screech. I remember being overcome with an intense feeling of guilt and dread that I hadn’t felt before.
I tried to make sense of the guilt days after, remembering my sobs and tears. The feeling of a heavy chest and the inability to stop crying. Why did I feel this way, and why did it hurt so much? I’ve traced this guilt to losing the job, as I was a close older sister and protector by proximity. When they left, I wasn’t there to help anymore. I was there when 10-year-old Jameson cried to me after a basketball game and told me how much he hated being the worst on the team. I was there when Annabelle would sneak into my room late at night to have a sleepover and stay up late laughing.
Pain is relative, and if only I had understood that feeling would never leave my body and would only get exponentially worse in the years to come, I would’ve counted my blessings. Annabelle and Jameson were only a 40-minute drive away, then. We went to each other’s graduations, birthday parties, and frequent sleepovers just because. I watched them go from babies to toddlers, annoying kids to my closest friends. I was around for all of it.
On a muggy morning in August, Annabelle, Jameson, Grace, I, and my mom packed up three cars full and drove the eight hours to Colorado. I drove my Jess, my little maroon Ford Focus, in all her glory of no A/C and a shitty Bluetooth connection. Annabelle loved me enough to endure the ride with me in the passenger seat. I was excited, I was about to get the keys to our new apartment, and the promise of a whole new life ahead of me. We moved heavy furniture in, we cursed at the dry heat, we dropped glass, and lay on the cold hardwood. Saturday night arrived to bid us a final farewell. This particular night altered my emotions and brain chemistry, permanently, I fear. I don’t remember crying as hard as I did when I watched them drive away from my new apartment. When they left, it was quiet, and I was left in these unfamiliar four walls. I sobbed and sobbed, feeling so alone for the first time in my life.
After three years, I wouldn’t say it’s ever gotten easier. Each time we part ways stings as much as the first time. I’ve found a perfect spot to avoid this deep sadness, and it’s a week-long visit. After a week, we get fed up with each other, as families do, and I’m excited to get back to Grace and the orange boys we live with. In days like this, I feel deeply that Grace is my family too, and coming home to them is as sweet as honey. The exceptions are short trips.
Last week, I turned 25. I tend to place a lot of pressure on my birthday to be perfect, with the cutest outfit and the most unforgettable party, but I felt a sense of calm this year. Grace and I went to dinner, and I got spaghetti and meatballs, of course. I drank an impressive amount of Pinot Grigio since getting off work only a couple of hours before. Bestie Alyssa was in town, and I was drunk, calm, and happy. After dinner, Grace and I lingered at the apartment before heading out to a fancy wine bar. I was singing karaoke on my cheap microphone, having probably consumed my fifth glass of wine and feeling tickled pink with what a good day my birthday was turning out to be.
Then my mom walked in the front door of my apartment, causing a complete mental stop. I cried, we hugged, and she got me a Dolly Parton mug. Tracy and I often discuss how obsessed we are with her.
We make our way to the wine bar and sit down in a dimly lit booth. My smile wouldn’t relax beyond a belated status, and I couldn’t stop tearing up. To make things more insane, my older sister, Lily, and Annabelle walked up behind me. With a weakened neck, my head fell into my palms, unable to comprehend what I was actually witnessing. From an outside perspective, you would’ve thought I hadn’t seen this group of women in years. I saw them in person two weeks prior, on vacation.
This visit felt particularly special for a few reasons. For starters, Grace and the girls held this secret for three months, and Grace is terrible at lying. I was onto them, though. I’m a sleuth at heart. Secondly, I hadn’t been able to celebrate a birthday with them in two years after spending the first 22 with them. This trip ultimately felt surreal because the three women I love most in my life chose me. They spent money on plane tickets, got a B&B, and waited months for a surprise just for me.
I’ve never felt like I was wanted or missed to the degree I felt then. The whole weekend was overwhelmingly fun, busy, chaotic, and perfect. We rode horses, and they listened to a lot of Chapel Roan. Annabelle and I even got to have a sleepover. On the last sleep, we ordered an excessive amount of Chinese takeout to the B&B. We got our servings, glasses of white wine, sat around the tiny coffee table, and turned on rerun episodes of iCarly. We laughed at the same scenes that made us laugh back in 2012.
On Sunday, they had a later evening flight out of Denver. We spent the day at the park, playing volleyball and board games. The dark, sad part of my brain wouldn’t let me forget they were leaving that night. I would push away the feeling and tell myself to just appreciate that they were sitting right next to me. After we spent the evening making homemade spring rolls, playing Quiplash, and listening to old Justin Bieber in the kitchen, it was time to order an Uber. We walked them down the three flights of stairs with their suitcases and gave final hugs before they climbed into the car. I do something funny when the departure situation arises— I never let them see me sad.
I didn’t cry in front of them, then. I hugged, smiled at, and waved until they turned the corner of my street. When the brake lights disappear, the deep wave of guilt washes over me. I feel terrible for moving far away, I feel abandoned being left here, and I just hope they had a good time. I recount each moment I accidentally snapped at Annabelle or got annoyed at their loud voices trailing over one another. When I got back into the apartment, I cried for half an hour, my chest aching, my throat dry, and they hadn’t even reached DIA.
Monday, I cried in segments throughout the day. I would watch TikTok or read my Kindle to distract myself. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw their leftover donut holes from Jelly Cafe, and I would break down again. I’d look at the decorations they put up for my birthday and sob. Later that evening, Grace and I were at Safeway getting groceries for the week ahead. I wore sunglasses inside and was off and on, sobbing. I think I even cried myself to sleep, missing those three people who had quickly come and gone. I was overly grateful, I was overwhelmed with serotonin, and I was nursing a three-day hangover from all the white wine.
It’s Friday now, and I can say I’ve worked 30 hours, managing to not break down to tears on the clock. However, to say I’ve been sensitive this week would be a grave understatement. I’ve cried to Kitchen Nightmares, I cried at several points in this week’s episode of The Summer I Turned Pretty, and I sob to TikTok edits. I can say I only cried a handful of times while writing this.
To put it another way, as I grow older, I have been able to make sense of these emotions. I know I feel things exponentially stronger than other people I know. What some might see as odd or inferior, I find my strong emotions to be an asset. Instead of seeing people or situations, I feel. Good or bad, I feel it in my chest, in my toes, in my fingertips. When I was in college, I wish I could tell younger Madeline to keep feeling it. I cried for my young siblings because I love them so immensely. I cried for them because I do feel guilty for moving away and growing up. I wish I could stay their protector forever. I wish we could live in the same house again and never have to watch them drive away or get in another Uber ever again. But, as has happened since the dawn of time, families grow up, move away, and form new families. I’m finding peace with that sentiment now. But I’m always going to cry myself to sleep the night we part, because I love my people that deep.
