the grandma feeling

Today I want to write a letter to my grandma. Her name was Suzan. But I called her Suzişko (a Turkish way of 'cutifying' a name). She passed away about five years ago.

My grandma was one of those women who felt like she had stepped out of a tale, but somehow still belonged completely to an ordinary living room. She did not need a crown, a title, or a grand achievement to be extraordinary. Her magic was in her spirit. It lived in her laugh, in her short curly hair that she let me play with, in the way her eyes sparkled when she said something mischievous, in the way she would purposely annoy my mother and then secretly laugh with me behind her back.

She had the soul of a child, not necessarily in a naive way. But in a way that came through play, warmth, jokes, dramatic commentary, and a kind of love that made me feel completely safe. She was my magical heroine, not because she conquered kingdoms or changed history through her achievements, but because she created a whole world inside me where I could rest.

She was also, in her own very sincere and very funny way, a strong feminist. To her, most of the evil, pain, and suffering in the world came from men. As a mother of four girls, she had seen deeply the struggles and hardships of women, especially mothers — raising children, taking care of the home, carrying the emotional weight of everyone, and often emotionally babysitting their husbands too.

The irony is that she was also deeply in love with her own husband. She thought my grandfather was a rare kind of man. A real man. Someone who was always there for his family, who helped with the house and the children as much as he could while also working an ambitious job. He even used to sew beautiful dresses for my grandma, because he too was very much in love with her. I cannot imagine her heartbreak when she lost him too early to a heart attack, and was left with four young girls to raise all by herself.

And again, ironically, despite her disappointment in mankind, she always wanted a son. She used to say it was because women carried so much pain in this world, and she wanted at least one of her children not to be a victim of that same burden. Yet she ended up having four girls.

Then her hope moved to the grandchildren.

First grandchild: girl.

Second: girl.

Third: also a girl.

This was me.

When I was born, my grandma moved in with us to help my mother. She became my second mother. My mom started working when I was six months old, so for most of the day it was just me and my grandma, until my mother came home in the afternoon.

I was too young to remember those early days clearly, but I remember the feeling of being with her. Playing with her did not feel like playing with an adult. She was my friend. She truly had the soul of a little child, with her curly hair and warm laughter.

Then my brother joined us.

Finally, a boy. The first boy of the family.

She loved him dearly, and you could always tell he was special to her. But I also knew I was special too. That is one of the greatest gifts my grandmother gave me: she loved in a way that did not make me feel replaced. She loved him deeply, and somehow I still felt held in my own place in her heart.

She always knew how to make me feel better when I was heartbroken. She saw me in a way I wish I could have seen myself. To her, I was always so beautiful, so smart, so successful. To her, I never lacked anything. There was nothing I needed to do better. I was simply the best—one of the most impressive women in the world.

I did not necessarily feel that way in the world.

At school and at home, there were always expectations. My parents were very loving, but of course the role of parents is different. They were carrying responsibilities, trying to guide me, trying to raise me well. So there was always something to improve. My grades could be better. I could learn more history to become more intellectual. If I struggled with weight, I could eat healthier. There was always a better version of me somewhere ahead, waiting to be reached.

And I internalized so much of that language of expectation. Maybe the harshest voice became the one I used on myself.

So when the world felt heavy, when expectations felt heavy, when I felt crushed under the feeling of not being good enough, I ran to my grandmother.

Her room, her presence, was my sanctuary.

There, I could just be me and be fully enough. Not only enough, more than enough. Every time I walked into her room, she would tell me how beautiful I was, how smart I was and if there was any man who had broken my heart, he was the most stupid man on earth for missing his chance with a woman like me.

In the evenings, she would watch her soap opera shows, and sometimes I would simply go to her room and lie on her bed. I didn’t need to talk. I just wanted to be bundled up in her unconditional love. My inner child came out with her because she felt safe there.

We would watch her silly shows together. She would get upset at the men in the show for making women suffer, or for simply being dumb while women had to take care of everything, and she would have the funniest, most dramatic and genuine reactions. Then we would laugh together.

Throughout my childhood, my teenage years, and all the way into my young adulthood, until I was twenty-eight and she died, my grandma’s presence and her room were my single most safe place. Even more than my own home.

She was my sanctuary when I could not be one for myself.

She was the place where I felt deeply loved and accepted as I was, with no questions asked.

So when she died, you can only imagine my heartbreak.

But I could not feel it.

It was too overwhelming to say goodbye to her, so I completely shut down. I could not cry. I was frozen. My mom saw it and kept asking me how I was in the aftermath, and I only said, “Fine.”

Life goes on, after all. And I had been preparing myself while she was sick. I was sad, but I was okay.

Except now I see that maybe I was not so okay.

I was not ready to touch my massive sorrow because I knew how deeply it would hurt.

And life did go on. I kept working my busy job. Later, I chased my dreams. I fell in love. I got married. I had a baby.

She used to always tell me I would be a gorgeous bride, the most beautiful bride, and that I would have a son.

I did have a son.

And it has been heart-wrenching not to have my grandma beside me in these beautiful life moments. I knew she wanted to see me get married to a loving man, and I did. But she did not get to see it. I knew she would have loved to see my baby boy, and she would have loved him so much. But she did not get to meet him. At least not in this world.

Still, I kept repressing my tears. I was afraid that if I let them come, I would not be able to stop them. So along with my tears, I also stopped connecting with my grandma after her death. I buried the grief so deeply that I buried the connection too.

Then, a few weeks ago, I watched an animation movie. Anyone who knows me knows I love animated movies. They are my absolute favorite. There is something about a story being told through animation that makes me connect to the characters more deeply and feel the emotions more intensely. Maybe it is because our minds cannot judge as much when we don’t see people who look exactly like us. Animated characters and animals somehow bypass the mind’s filters. They soften the distance between us and the story, and amplify the emotions so we can feel them more fully.

This one was called Memoir of a Snail. It was about a woman named Grace, who collected and then hoarded snails throughout an emotionally difficult life filled with loss. Then Grace made an older friend named Pinky.

Pinky was a woman of grandma age. She was eccentric and colorful. Their friendship made Grace feel safe. I don’t know if it was her curly gray hair, or the feeling of safety she created, or her embodiment of an inner child, but Pinky made me remember my grandma.

And when Pinky died, I started crying.

Not just for Pinky.

For my grandma.

For the grief I had swallowed.

For the five years of tears I had refused to let fall.

I cried in a way that almost felt like drowning. So much came out of me. And as I write this now, the tears are still pouring. Like a waterfall, and a giant one.

The truth is: I miss my grandma so much.

I miss her safe, childlike presence. I miss her laugh. I miss her room. I miss my sanctuary.

At times, I have felt so out of place without her. Especially during these challenging years of being a mother. Motherhood, I have learned, is a constant collision with the feeling of not being enough—of never being able to do everything beautifully all at once. And I know that if she were still here, she would tell me, with that absolute certainty of hers, that I am a gorgeous mother. That I mother my baby so beautifully. That to her, I would be the best and most beautiful mom in the world.

Sometimes I don’t know how to let my inner child come out, because I’m not even sure she feels safe enough to come out in the hustle of our daily life. And I’m not even sure there is anyone in my life who makes my inner child feel safe the way my grandma did.

I don’t think there is.

The closest person is probably my dear friend Megz, and I’m not sure if it is a coincidence that she also has very curly hair like my grandma.

And then there is my baby boy, Xander. With him, the grandma feeling comes back to me, just in reverse. My grandma offered me a love that flowed downward, from elder to grandchild. Xander offers me a love that flows upward, from child to mother. But somehow the gift is the same. When I play with him, I get to be a little child again. To him, no matter how imperfect I am, no matter how short I fall, I am the most perfect mother. He loves me so dearly and so fully, with all my imperfections. And we get to play all day long.

But mostly, and sadly, I am realizing I have not yet learned how to offer this same safety to myself.

And yet, as the tears come out, I reconnect with my grandma in my heart.

I know even though my grief is massive, even though my heartbreak is massive, it cannot actually destroy me.

What hurt more was not the grief.

What hurt more was blocking my connection to her.

Maybe what I need most is not to avoid the sorrow, but to let the sorrow become a gateway. To connect with her again. To talk to her in my prayers. To let her love move through me. To somehow learn how to grandma my own inner child.

Because here is what I believe:

I still believe my grandma is here.

Even though I cannot see her, touch her, smell her, or hear her, she exists within me. She exists as a grandma feeling inside my heart.

And every time I connect to her, I can feel her presence again. I can feel enough again. I can feel more than enough. I can feel extraordinarily special. I can feel safe again as a little child. My inner child can come out again.

All I need is to remember her.

All I need is to not let my fear of tears and heartbreak get in the way of remembering her.

So,

Hi Grandma,

I miss you and love you so dearly.

You are always in my heart and in my prayers.

Thank you for being my sanctuary. Thank you for gifting me this priceless grandma feeling. Thank you for making this feeling so safe, so loved, so held.

And I know now that even though you may be gone from this world, no one can take this feeling away from me. No one can take this special place within my heart that is yours.

I am sorry I haven’t been in contact.

I will do better from now on.

You are always here, in my heart.

Love,

Urala