Confessions of a Strong-Willed Soul

I’m the oldest of three. Translation: I got to boss everyone around and act like I knew everything, which is code for “I was a brat.” My sister Kami is four years younger, which meant she caught most of my orneriness and jealous streaks. Honestly, it’s a miracle she speaks to me today, let alone calls me her best friend. But let’s be real: she got her licks in. Mom hated when we drew on foggy windows. Kami would doodle something, sign my name, and then rat me out.

Not that I didn’t deserve it: I cut off her doll’s hair, tried to give her away once, and even convinced her to run away. I was mean. Not “mischievous,” not “spirited.” Mean.

And it wasn’t just her - I was a tough kid in general. Strong-willed, they call it. That’s the polite way of saying “rotten kid.” I bucked the system at every turn, rarely did what I was told, and only figured myself out sometime in my thirties. Okay…late thirties. Fine. Fifties.

And yes, the “Mother’s Curse” is real. I got not one but TWO daughters who are just like me: headstrong, stubborn, professional eye-rollers. I’d call my mom crying, “I’m sorry I was such a rotten kid! Now how do I fix her?” Mom would laugh, sprinkle a little wisdom, and hang up, leaving me convinced I could handle my mini-me. Spoiler: I rarely could.

Of course, my strong will showed up in everyday nonsense too. If Kami and I had to do dishes, I’d “need to be in the bathroom” just long enough for most of the work to be done by the time I came back. When I did the dishes alone, silverware mysteriously disappeared. Years later, Dad asked, “So…did you throw away the silverware on purpose?” I laughed nervously and changed the subject.

In school, I wasn’t much better. In Kindergarten, I got sent to the corner constantly. I’d stand there ripping the bulletin board border into confetti, leaving a paper trail of defiance. By upper grades, they stuck me in a “study carrel,” which now would probably qualify as cruel and unusual punishment.

And of course, there are the confessions you make as an adult once you’re sure the statute of limitations has run out. Like when my brother and I used to sneak into half-built houses and pretend we lived there. We didn’t break anything, just hid in closets when real estate agents showed up with clients. Once, crouched under the stairs, I felt like the von Trapps hiding from the Nazis, except we were hiding from an annoyed realtor. Same energy.

That strong will didn’t disappear when I got older. I carried it right into loss. When Robert died, I thought I could out-stubborn the pain. If grief told me to sit down, I stood up. If grief told me to rest, I worked harder. If grief whispered, You can’t fix this, I shouted back, Watch me.

But grief is the one thing you cannot boss around. You can’t rat out your sister and get it blamed on her. You can’t hide in the bathroom until it passes. You can’t outwit it with clever tricks. Grief waits. It stands there, arms crossed, until you stop fighting long enough to realize the only way through is… through.

Over time, that same strong will that made me a brat gave me grit. It didn’t help me escape grief, but it helped me stay with it. To keep showing up, even when I hated every minute of it. The brat grew into someone who could sit with loss, then write about it. Someone who finally figured out how to use all that orneriness for something useful.

I’m not a brat anymore. Mostly. Now I’m just someone who learned the hard way that grief won’t be bossed, bribed, or outsmarted. But if you can stick with it, even with a stubborn streak, grief will do its own strange work: it softens you, and maybe, if you’re lucky, it leaves you closer to the ones who stayed.

With Grace for the Mess

~Stef