Hear Me Out by Kitty Kistler

I think it’s women who have been quietly keeping each other alive forever.

It’s women who give women beautiful, thoughtful things and throw them beautiful, thoughtful celebrations.

Who check in and follow up and drop coffee at the door and a letter in the mailbox.

Who offer to sit with you for no reason.

Who laugh at the inside jokes and don’t get mad when you make a wrong turn or constantly mess up.

Who love you more when you hate yourself.

Who treat you to dinner when you can’t pay and never humiliate you for who you are.

It’s the women who commune and cook together.

The women who solve the mystery before the mystery even knew it needed a sleuth.

Your ride-or-dies and membership-sharing divas who remember how you like your coffee, only talk about your finances when it’s to encourage you, put a hand over your drink at the bar, and never expect more than dinner and a movie.

And yet they’ll crawl into bed beside you while you cry.

While you heal.

While you sleep.

It’s the women who leave you with more than you had, even if it’s only an exchange of words or a compliment as you brush by.

The women who say, Heads up.

And, Don’t you remember when you were that age?

And, Bring the kids. The more the merrier.

And, Don’t worry about it. We’ll order a pizza.

And, Girl. Go take a shower. It’s time to get you out of this house.

Maybe that’s why women make beautiful things for other women.

The brunch. The flowers. The birthday table.

The coffee left on the porch.

The stupid little thing she saw at Target and bought because it reminded her of you.

All given safely, without expecting anything but *you* in return.

Somewhere in this photograph is the candle I lit for my mother at Westminster Abbey.

She was entering hospice.

I was coming home.

Neither of us knew how little time was left.

I landed on U.S. soil at 8:25 p.m. on August 22, 2024.

We had just returned from Madi's graduation trip across the pond. My mom had been in the hospital before we left, and while we were away, I heard murmurs of hospice.

I was told to visit her the next morning.

I knew we were preparing for the end.

I arrived at the coffee shop to meet my brother at 10:30 a.m.

I arrived to hug my mom at 11:45.

There, in my grandmother's living room—the same room my mom grew up in, the one where we sat on laps (including Santa's), played with toys, had sleepovers, took the best naps, and watched countless movies—was my mom in a hospital bed, her pastor praying over her.

She was as vibrant as she could be, but having a hard time breathing.

We talked like any other day.

We made plans for things we would do the next week.

We laughed. We cried.

She insisted I open the window because she needed airflow, and that room had an amazing crosswind.

Mid-sentence, she stopped and asked to use the bathroom.

I looked at the time. I should probably start packing my things to get the kids from school. The lack of sleep was catching up with me.

Anticipating a "next time," fully believing time was still on our side, I was eager to finish our conversation.

At 1:38 p.m. on August 23, 2024, she collapsed behind the bathroom door.

Her life on earth came to an end.

And mine would never be the same.

Eight days later, on August 31, during an outdoor service on a blisteringly hot day, I stood in front of our family and friends and tried to explain who she was.

These are the words I read that day.

I don't want to rewrite them with what I know now.

I want to preserve the words of the daughter who had lost her mother eight days before.

"There’s a million photos and a million memories that shatter my heart and glue it together at the same time.

You knew my mother, you were blessed.

She made sure to speak her mind, but she made sure to pray for you. She was stoic, but she was real and uncomplicated. My mother had a standard, but she didn’t expect much. She allowed you to be who you were, while sacrificing everything about herself to put others first.

She was always of service.

These past 5 years have proven to be the most difficult for more reasons than just her fight to the finish. There were unprecedented world events, a desire to beat all the odds and live out her dreams, and the unending care she provided my grandmother while fighting a cancer that was so rare she was it’s only victim.

To tell you it’s been my honor to love her feels like a massive understatement, and it was a privilege to be with her until her very last breath.

I know she’s in heaven, I know she was welcomed home by her parents and best friends who went before her, and I know -without any doubt- that she is free of the torment and pain she wore silently locked under her armor of bravery.

She’s at rest.

She’s at peace.

She’s free.

She taught all of her children to be leaders, to be headstrong enough to take on any challenge, and compassionate enough to love with an empathetic heart.

'The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined'. Isaiah 9:2

Her experience of the world was not always gentle. Many days she felt defeated or, in some ways a bit beat up. But she never let you see her suffer, bc her greatest joy was the joy of others.

My mother had a quiet knowing and understood acceptance that none of us were sent to accomplish some earth shattering thing, but to touch this world with His love in small ways, every day.

She lived the pure simplicity of Jesus’ love, a love that wasn’t complicated or harsh, a love that didn’t require a manual or catechism, but rather a love that was defined by two things: loving God, and loving thy neighbor.

She taught us about humility, while teaching us no one should feel humiliated.

She reminded us often that we have nothing to prove; we simply have to be.

That’s the simplicity that also brought her abundance.

We thank God for this love that permeates our lives and spreads its love wherever we go.

Our relationship with her was both an anchor and a compass. And we will continue to feel grounded in her faithful embrace and never ending guidance as we forge our own paths forward.

She didn’t see God heal her body, cure her illness, or end her pain, but she chose to surrender completely.

She was not afraid.
She was not anxious.

She was her true self, even in her last moments. She had hope and promise in what God proclaimed to her.

Our mother was often apologetic, believing, she left cancer as her legacy to us, but as we sit here today—those who loved her first, those who met her along the way, those of us who she brought into this world, and the new generation who knew her as grandma—the things I know as her legacy are the incredible family and community she raised us in, the work she did to serve this church, the way she held tight to the family stories, the children and families she connected to Jesus through Manna night, the children she shared her love of gardening with through the Master Gardener’s programs, the animals she so selflessly loved, the compassion she showed my grandmother until the very end, the way she would rock us to sleep or read us a book, the way we can say “Helen” and everyone knows who she is, Aunt Helen’s iced tea, her pies —which resulted in a house divided on thanksgiving—pumpkin or Dutch apple, and most notable and greatest of all are the hundreds, if not thousands, of gardens that will grow from the love of her favorite pastime—just as her family will continue to grow because of the sacrifices she made for us.

The plans she had, the way she moved through this world, the way she viewed this life was surrendered because she knew He would care for her and embrace all of us as He called her home.

I found a note in her Bible, on a yellow piece of paper, tucked inside the pages between Psalm 23 and Psalm 25 that simply said 'Pray. Always ask, ‘What does this mean? What is God saying to me in this?’'

'To You, O lord, I lift up my soul.
O my god I trust in you;
Let me not be ashamed.
Show me your ways O Lord; teach me your paths.' Psalm 25 v 1,2,4

As we all ask why and find ourselves saddened for her, I hope it fills your heart with peace to know that she felt protected and loved, she felt ready to enter the kingdom and live eternally free from her earthly suffering.

Most of the versus she highlighted or tabbed were in reference to being God’s servant and when I think of service she was a pure example of all that encompasses.

I can not thank everyone enough who cared for her, prayed with her, served with her, laughed with her, and loved her even when some had never met her.

Her service to her family, church, and community should not go unrecognized and for that commitment we celebrate, the life she lived—with simple abundance."

Moms are supposed to contribute...

Financially, maybe have a career, but be fully present for the job they have at home. Which probably means keeping the house clean, which I’m certain includes cooking dinner.

But it should be a mindful and healthy dinner so everyone has consistency and she can stay in shape, even though dinner takes time and creates another mess after everything was just cleaned up.

But also take a break.

Definitely have friends, but not too many friends, because being a supportive partner is rule #1.

Holidays should feel magical with all the fixins, even if it’s too much to manage, because there will also be a spirit week that cannot be forgotten. And money will get tight, so definitely use the panic to budget better and rely on guilt to curb the spending.

Sports should be practiced daily, cheered on from the sidelines, and not double-booked when the PTA advertises the coolest event of the year.

Make sure the dog is brushed and walked and all doctor appointments are scheduled on time.

Juice should be watered down, caffeine doubled up, and sugar criminalized.

Wake up early to get alone time. Work on healing for future generations. Worry about everything, but relax and rest. Clean while they sleep, but sleep while they nap. Make sure the kids have chores even if their help isn’t actually helpful.

Ask for help, but not too many times or in that tone.

And no matter what, never sit down.

I used to think I was just really bad at balance.

I used to think everything needed to be automated.

I used to convince myself I was the problem.

Was it my brain?
Was it my health?
Was it my fault?

Now I’m wondering who decided all of this was supposed to balance in the first place.

Maybe motherhood isn’t the unreasonable part.

Maybe the assignment is just bu****it.

The Last Ordinary Day

Ok this is a hard one, but it’s necessary to honor a moment when I completely missed my chance.

August 4.

Exactly two years ago today, on a Sunday, I said out loud for the first time:

“Mom is dying.”

As I cleaned her bathroom, I saw my brother look at me and in that moment I knew.

But, I didn’t know.

And now I do know.
I know the pain of not being able to believe someone’s truth because my heart wasn’t ready to let go of mine.

There were no pictures. No long conversations that tied everything together. No Hallmark goodbye where everyone somehow knew exactly what to say.

There was silence. Anger. Avoidance. Sadness.
And so much love that had nowhere to go.

It’s the day she stopped being part of my camera roll, and 19 days before she’d stop being part of my text messages and missed call log.

It’s the day she became sick forever.
It’s the day I had to tell my friends.
It’s the day I had to be honest with my sister.

It’s the day I had to face my kids, with the strength and courage of a mother, when I was only a kid cowardly wanting her mom.

Aug 4 was the last time she had the strength to leave her bedroom to walk down the stairs.

She never got to go back to bed, tucked under a quilt stitched by her mother. She never got to pick up her Bible or look at the photos tucked into the pages one last time.

The closet doors wouldn’t squeak open again until it was time to dress her for eternity.

I have spent two years imagining everything I wish I had done differently.

But, I went home—and became undone.

I couldn’t imagine a world without her.
I focused on my fears, not her truth.

I didn’t help her write letters. I didn’t help her choose one last Christmas gift for the kids. I didn’t help her tell the story she still had left to tell.

Grief can feel like guilt.
Grief can feel like tragedy.
Grief can feel like regret.

Sometimes grief feels like an unbearable weight of love that arrived too late to become words.

And I know the tears I cry aren’t going to fix the way things ended, they won’t write a new story, or magically leave a letter to be found.

If someone you love is telling you they’re dying… believe them.

Because believing them might allow you more time to honor the story that’s still being written.

—xoxo, Kitty

An introduction to Hear Me Out.

I certainly don't have anything figured out.
But I do know life rarely makes sense at first.

I notice things. Chronically.
Some say to a fault. I say for clarity.

✨ A phone book on the end table.
✨ The smell of Payless Shoes.
✨ The way a grocery cart always seems to have one rebellious wheel.
✨ A phrase someone says without realizing it will stay with me for years.
✨ The way society moves us along until we stop long enough to discover our own path.

Then, I can't stop thinking about it.

Eventually my brain says, "Hear me out..."

That’s usually when an essay is born.

For years, I've shared those essays wherever they seemed to fit. Facebook became an important space when I realized that people weren't just reading my work—they were bringing their own stories into the comments.

One memory became another. One ordinary object became a conversation. A conversation became a community.

That's what I want this space to be.

Not a place where I have all the answers. A place where we get curious together.

If you're looking for life hacks, this probably isn't your space.

But, if you've ever found yourself unexpectedly emotional over a kindergarten memory, the loss of someone dear, the way MTV used to be, growing older, or some completely ordinary thing you can't quite explain...

..you're probably in the right place.

I'll be publishing personal essays here as they're written. Some will be funny. Some will punch a little harder. Most will begin with something small and end somewhere I didn't expect when I started typing.

Welcome to the revelations.

I'm glad you're here.

— Kitty

I was once in a Strongman Competition and lost to the most unsuspecting competitor.

Hear me out...do you remember the phone book?

It was the newspaper, Google, Yelp, and Facebook rolled into one—delivered free to every house in town and permissibly doxxing everyone who lived there. The ultimate babysitter's guide to being insanely responsible for keeping someone else's kid alive at the ripe age of 12.

It held everyone's phone number.

Every business.
Poison Control.
Coupons.
Local government.

It was Grandma's internet browser and our booster seat.

And it ended my career as the strongest five-year-old in town.

I was disappointed not to be a tightrope walker or acrobat in the Kindergarten circus, but slowly made peace as a top contender in the Strong Man competition (I was also Ben Franklin in the Kindergarten play, so maybe it was the haircut). While my peers were taming lions and doing backflips in tutus, I was slated to show how easily I could "rip" this colossal book in half.

I had trained for this.
I slapped off the fear, stepped into the ring, and heard the moms go wild. Their pride was palpable as they prepared to watch my 5-year-old spaghetti arms shred an entire phone book in half--with my bare hands!

I could barely believe it myself. And it would have been my defining moment if my book didn’t get us caught in the act. There I was, in position, ready to tear right through those pages like gift wrap on Christmas morning, when that SOB slipped from my hand, exposing its pre-cut secrets and ending my career.

I should’ve been with the clowns…

My muscles were deflated by a glue-bound blabbermouth. But, as they say, some people are magic while others are just the illusion of it.

The adults with their dramatic "oohs" and "ahhs."
They knew all along.

Children spend years believing adults are magical.
Then one day they catch the magician loading the rabbit into the hat.

It wasn't the loss that surprised me. It was learning there had been a trick all along.

Maybe that's part of growing up. Adults make impossible things appear possible until it's time for us to learn how they work.

The phone book couldn't make me stronger.
It just made the impossible look believable for a little while.

I never did become the Strong Man.

But I still miss the phone book because, looking back, maybe the strongest thing it ever held together wasn't paper.

It was a community that knew when to challenge you...and when to give you a boost.

I’m so over my mom being dead.
A memory popped up, 5 years ago today on a vacation together. I swiped so fast through my phone to see her face, to find proof, to trick myself into believing she’s here.

And not one damn picture of her sitting with me.

And it’s like that, that’s grief. Inside of my head I’m holding the image, the conversations, the joy, the love—but to the world, it’s just looks like it’s just me…talking to myself.

I don’t know how to explain what it feels like to know someone is ever present yet not visible, except vacation photos of true happiness without a witness in sight.

I swear she was here. We were there.
And now she’s forever nowhere.

I’m so over my mom being dead.
I’m done with her being gone…like, for forever.

It’s so nice of her.
Also, are the men ok? Bc it seems like they might need a welfare check.