The Bathroom Floor

The Place Where Grief and Hope Talk

In 2020, I did something most people dream about—I retired.

After a twenty-year career as an elementary school principal, I stepped away from the early morning alarms, the endless meetings, and the fifth-grade science fair volcanoes that erupted in more ways than one.

I thought retirement would feel like a ticker-tape parade, complete with confetti and perhaps a trip to the Galapagos.

Instead, I found myself sitting on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, ugly crying into a bath towel.

Not one of those fluffy pink spa towels, either.

No, this was the one that had seen better days, fraying at the edges, much like my sense of self.

My head rested against the wall as I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to keep myself from unraveling.

The tile pressed into my legs, a tactile reminder that I was still here, still real, even if I didn’t feel like it.

I was depressed.

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Retirement wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But there I was, trapped between the battles I’d already fought and the emptiness stretching out before me.

The grief wasn’t just about leaving my career.

It was grief for a lifetime of holding things together when they felt like they might fall apart at any second.

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There were the scars of a childhood that taught me resilience but left its bruises.

The years of walking on eggshells around a husband carrying the invisible wounds of PTSD.

The staggering loss of becoming an AIDS widow in a world that still didn’t know how to talk about it.

And the relentless voice in my head that always managed to whisper, “You’ll never be enough,” no matter how many gold stars I’d slapped on my life’s report card.

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The walls around me felt like they were closing in, but at least they were quiet.

Too quiet.

The silence was deafening, and it echoed with a question I didn’t want to answer: Is this it?

Somewhere in that moment—between the snot and the sobs—came a faint whisper that wasn’t mine.

It wasn’t a burst of inspiration, or a message from beyond, or even the ghost of one of my former students finally apologizing for what they’d done to the boys’ bathroom walls.

It was more like an annoyed nudge from the universe or the kind hand of God.

“Stand up.”

That’s it.

Two words.

Not you’re amazing, not you’ve got this, just a simple directive: Stand up.

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And let me tell you, standing up was no small feat.

My knees were stiff, my heart felt like lead, and my dignity had taken the nearest exit.

But I did it.

I peeled myself off that bathroom floor like a wad of gum off the bottom of a shoe.

Not graceful, but effective.

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What I didn’t know then was that the floor wasn’t the end—it was the pause.

A moment to catch my breath before I started building something new.

That whisper, “Stand up,” became my rallying cry.

I also think these words would look great on a T-shirt!

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It wasn’t about suddenly having all the answers or knowing what the next chapter would look like.

It was about refusing to stay stuck on that cold tile.

So I began to move—slowly, awkwardly, with a lot of detours and a bit too much reality TV.

And somewhere along the way, I rediscovered pieces of myself I thought I’d lost.

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If you’ve ever found yourself on your own version of the bathroom floor, wondering if it’s worth it to get back up, let me save you some suspense: it is.

Because as long as you’re still here, there’s still more to the story.

And sometimes, it starts with nothing more than a whisper that reminds you to stand.

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The whispered phrase “Stand up” still echoes in my life today.

It wasn’t a one-and-done deal, where I got up off the bathroom floor and everything magically fell into place.

Life, as it turns out, doesn’t work that way.

Life keeps on being life, and sometimes it gets really… lifey.

You know what I mean—those moments that punch you in the gut when you’re just trying to mind your own business.

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It could be a health diagnosis you didn’t see coming, a relationship that feels more fragile than it should, hurt feelings when your grown kids are off doing their thing and forgetting your thing entirely.

Or maybe it’s that gnawing fear of the future, the slow creep of depression, the jittery edge of anxiety, or just turning on the news and wondering what on earth is happening to the world.

I have an easy solution for this one which is to not turn on the news!

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There are days when I feel the weight of all of it pressing down again, and I have to remind myself—sometimes out loud, like a crazy person—that standing up isn’t just a one-time act of bravery.

It’s a practice.

Life isn’t going to stop throwing curveballs just because I’ve already survived a few fast pitches.

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And honestly, some days I don’t feel like standing up. I’d rather crawl back under the covers, binge on peanut butter M&M’s, and pretend none of it exists.

But then that whisper comes back, gentle but firm, like the world’s softest drill sergeant: Stand up.

It doesn’t mean I have to conquer everything in one day.

It doesn’t mean I’m suddenly filled with hope or clarity or boundless energy.

It just means I have to take the next step, no matter how small.

To remind myself that I’ve been on the floor before and I’ve gotten up.

And I can do it again.

We just have to stand.

Have you ever had a “bathroom floor” moment—a time when life got so lifey you weren’t sure how to get back up? What was your whisper, your nudge, or your first small step that helped you move forward? I’d love to hear your story.