Cycles of life
JUNE 5.
On Friday, June 5, 2026, there was an exchange within an exchange on Substack. Cass wrote about how exhausting it can be to raise children without a village, how tired she can be some days.
Sylvia G replied that it’s not just women with children, but women in general:
When I grew up, I was raised on a city block where the parents as well as the child-free neighbors all knew each and everyone looked out for us kids. If any adult told you to do or not do something you just listened. Basically, even though I lived in a very largely populated city, I grew up in a quasi village. If a mom on the block needed help, it was there.
I find that so many women these days are in your situation Cass, where even if they live in a city or town, the other women are at work or busy with other activities and moms are often just not living in an environment where support is readily available unless it is paid and even that is hard to find.
Alice is correct when she writes, “Women were taught to carry the crushing weight of the entire village they are missing.” Her words here are utterly profound.
Cass, you are a gifted writer [Sylvia is right!] and I know your time is already stretched thin, but perhaps a concentrated focus on this issue within your Substack could be helpful? I know there are many mothers out there right now who are struggling to figure out a better way to get what is needed.
I seconded Sylvia’s comment. I agree with Sylvia. It’s an issue that affects women of every generation. We are the caregivers. Rarely those who receive care. It’s hard.
After a little more back and forth, Sylvia paid me an unexpected compliment, to which I replied, “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that today.”
Then I wondered why I felt that way. From the moment I got out of bed on Friday, it was as if the weight of the entire universe was on my shoulders.
I couldn’t figure out why. After all, it hadn’t been a bad week. It had actually been a pretty good week. Finished two chapters of the novel-in-progress, researched newspapers dot com for the next couple of chapters, had a couple of cheery conversations with old friends who mean the world to me (hi Gwen and Clare!), wrote several essays, went to Hollabaugh’s and indulged in a homemade strawberry milkshake. It has been a nice spring week, temps in the 70s, sunny skies. Yea for Pennsylvania in June!
So why did Friday feel like it weighed a million pounds? Why did I sleep so badly Thursday into Friday, with nightmares I couldn’t remember when I woke up?
Then Friday’s date hit me. June 5. June 5. June 5.
On this day in 1975, my little brother was born. I’ll spare you the gory details of 1975-1977, and 1977-1990, and 1990-1995. When I reach 1975 in this novel-in-progress, I’m going to have issues to work through that won’t be fun. My parents got so many things right. But in 1975, they were in over their heads.
It’s not his birthday as such that put me into a funk. The recent funk related to him started with his birthday in 2023, but hardly ended there. That happened to be the first year that I noticed his radio silence on Facebook. He’d always been a social media kind of guy. On September 10, 2021, he disappeared from the face of the earth. Which I noticed on June 5, 2023, when for the second year in a row, he didn’t respond to the dozens upon dozens of birthday wishes he received on FB. Not even a “like.”
This mystery has since been partially resolved. And it's intensely personal. I wouldn’t post this publicly at all except for one thing: It’s easy to get overwhelmed or feel “tired” or just down for no good reason. I’ve long understood that the anniversary of my sister’s suicide in December will forever be a messed-up day for me. I don’t even try to pretend otherwise.
Other dates too, although some get easier. The first ten years after my father’s death in 1988 and my mother’s in 2013 were beyond hard. I couldn’t stop crying. Over time, the pain of grief lessened.
Despite lessening of the pain, I do know that I have to be careful when those anniversaries roll around. I can see an ancient Chevy Caprice Classic, blue, and not burst into tears as I would have done in 1989 or even 1998. But that grief, though lessened, lives right under the surface.
June 5.
If you’ve read this far, please note: My wish is that your takeaway is not to feel sorry for me. I’ll bounce back. Cycles of life have a way of moving on. The “down” moments are replaced with sunshine and fresh strawberries soon enough.
And as a reminder, cycles of life also include feeling happy and “up” for no good reason. Could be associated with your wedding anniversary or birth of a first child or first trip to Germany. Who knows but you? Those cycles are built into your biology, and each person’s cycles are different.
As we grow older, the circles built upon those circles ‘widen’—that is, the pain or joy grows less intense. But the cycles remain.
So my wish for you, as it is for myself: Be aware of the dates that get to you, good and bad, happy or sad. The days you should pencil in as PTO because you’re gonna stay in bed all day. The days you should schedule a fun night out with your friends.
Maybe next year you won’t need to stay in bed all day. Maybe next year you can write Scotland Yard and hope for a response. Maybe the year after that, you can just take it easy and do something nice for yourself.
Cycles of life.
Talk about it
Have you recently felt down (or up) for no good reason? Can you associate it with a milestone in your life that may have affected you without your realizing it?
Comments worth keeping
That makes my heart heavy. I do hope your letter to Scotland Yard will be investigated. (And, shout out to care givers—we are a tough tribe.)
--PJ Hinton, June 6, 2026.
Posts like this really do connect people. Nobody leaves life on Planet Earth without a fair or unfair share of pain. It’s not easy being human!
--Gwen Miertschin, June 6, 2026.
I am so glad that my post opened up such a heartfelt and helpful exchange between you and Sylvia! This is where the magic of connection happens... Sometimes in the offshoots of the original matter being explored. I've never given thought the the subconscious effects of certain dates, but now I'll definitely pay better attention. In fact, I've had some nightmares recently and I've been in my own funk, and your essay prompted me to look at the calendar... A prominent anniversary is coming up that I normally don't even think about. Thank you for drawing my attention to it. The human mind is an incredible labrynth and these types of conversations are so priceless.
--Cass, June 6, 2026.
Thanks for the reminder to all that so many of us have things that we are thankful for and that bring us joy. May we continue to share those joys with each other and support each other times of joy or sadness.
--Sylvia G, June 6, 2026.
Two years running, the page packed with birthday wishes, people reaching for him, and not one lousy like back. That's the part that guts me, Denise.
You filed June 5 in the same row as the December date and losing your mother, like they're all stories that quiet down with time, and I get why you did, the body really does dump all the grief in one pile. But this is a different beast, and I think Friday hit you so hard because of exactly that mismatch. Your sister, your mother, there it ended. Awful, yes, but a fact, a period on the sentence. Time can sand down the edges around that point because there's something to push off from. June 5 has no center like that. Nobody ever told you it's over, so the date won't let go, it just swings back around every year and picks open whatever was left raw after the last letter went unanswered.
That's the difference your own idea about widening circles can't account for. A circle grows out from a center. There's no center here. There's a hole where he used to be, and you can't back away from a thing with no edges, there's nothing to back away from.
And that's exactly why your letter to Scotland Yard isn't the funk talking. It's the opposite. If the funk had you, you'd have just gritted through the day and chalked it up as a bad one. The fact that you sat down to write the thing, that's you refusing to close the case on someone else's terms, on the terms of that "wife" who scrubbed every photo, or the embassies that went quiet. That's not someone who can't handle her emotions. That's someone with a foot in a door other people keep leaning on, trying to get it shut.
The blue Caprice you can look at calmly now, fine. This one never did loosen its grip.
--Vance Frost, June 8, 2026.
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© 2026 Denise Elaine Heap. Please contact me for permission to quote.
Image credits: Top photograph--Weeping angel gravestone, Glenwood cemetery, Houston, Texas. Photo © 1971 Denise Elaine Heap. Please contact me for permission to use. Bottom photo--Shopify, public domain for platform users.
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