Since my mother’s death, my brother, sister, and I have been dealing with her possessions. This is no simple task. It has not been merely the distribution of a treasured ring, family china, a little jar that sat on a desk. No. It has been like signing up for something billed as a nature walk and discovering instead that one is to summit Mount Kilimanjaro. The three of us made one heroic effort, and then we have engaged in several feeble efforts, and finally we have agreed to leave it to the professionals. We are rank amateurs.

I have been helpless as a kitten in the face of my mother’s things, but there is still time for me. I have not placed my belongings in pyre and struck a match. I have thought a lot about what I want, what I need, and what I intend to leave behind. Perhaps in an attempt to piece together my life, I have made things from scraps.

I have walked the dog for countless miles. I have cried, although perhaps less than you would think and in response to things that surprise even me. I have been unable to paint. I have been unable to write. I have been bone tired. I have looked at life through dirty windows.

I have not been myself.

I have cleaned house. In that endeavor I have forsaken the bespoke environmental cleaners in twee glass jars for a jug of lavender-scented Fabuloso. It is cheap. It is multi-purpose. It can be used almost everywhere. It smells pleasing, in the sense that it odorously announces in an outside voice I HAVE CLEANED.

We all have things we like to do. Cleaning-wise, I am a champ when it comes to vacuuming, sweeping, cleaning sinks and toilets, and emptying trash. I find dusting odious. But dust I must, and in early March — almost 30 years to the day after it was taken — I picked up this framed photograph on Chris’ bedside table.

As a woman closing in rapidly on 54 years old, I view my 23 year-old self with wonder. It is a photograph of me at the peak of my beauty: My skin is flawless, my hair is auburn, my waist is trim. The photograph embarrassed me, though, because I distinctly remember feeling at that time of my life that I was fat and ugly. What was I thinking?

It has occurred to me that I have often been a hard and wrathful judge of myself. After a lifetime of attempts to convince myself not to care about what people think, I have decided to give my friends their due credit. I felt terrible about my last conversation with my mother: an unworthy child, a bad daughter, a miserable human being. When I wrote about it, I received a stream of private messages, texts, and letters from friends who have had difficult relationships with their own parents. One of those people told me that complicated relationships lead to complicated grieving. Another person gently reminded me that being a mother is hard, and that we all do what we can. Someone else vowed to make sure his own children know of his intense love for him. Others talked about grief and bewilderment and acceptance. As I read their words, I stood in the company of people I love — none of whom I would ever describe as unworthy, bad, or miserable.

While dealing with my mother’s decline and death, I was called upon at work to do something very difficult and very isolating. In moments when I wondered whether I was up to the task, my friends had no doubt that I was. Their support overwhelmed me and formed what often felt like a protective bubble around me.

I visited a long-time friend a few weeks ago. I invited myself to see her, which is a patented move of mine. The weekend meant so much to me, and the many small kindnesses of decades of friendship gave me so much to think about. My friend, an excellent cook, made dinner. Like all the greats, she made it look easy. When I made a comment to that effect, she assured me that it was. You set the oven, she said, and you switch out what is in it. There is no magic. After dinner, my friend, her husband, and I were talking, and I told a story from — I’m not kidding — 1984. Her husband said very kindly that he heard that story, which made me think: Why I am mired in something that happened 38 years ago? And: isn’t it time to let it go? As my friend and I were driving the next day, she told me that the freedom of being in your 50s felt a lot like the freedom of being in your 20s.

I have considered what it means to be me and how I can be myself. I do not think I will discover the answers, but I can try. I can do the small things that make myself more peaceable: eat right, meditate, exercise, pick up a paintbrush, garden, clean the house, walk the dog endlessly. I can go to dance classes, one of the few places where I am not riddled with imposter syndrome, and where half the class admires my enthusiasm and the other half secretly hopes that I break an ankle. I can write a love letter to my friends, because without them, I would not have made it through this year with any semblance of grace and sanity. I can return the favor, and I can assure you that you can do hard things. I can clean house, and I can let go, and I can embrace the freedom that unfolds.

ALC