50 / matters magazine / fall 2026 finalmatters E ach summer, my family heads to Cape Cod for vacation. We try to relax, leave behind parts of our New Jersey selves and slip into new identities. I see it in small ways: My daughter meets new friends and claims to know how to do gymnas tics, somehow pulling off a front flip in the sand. My son allows himself to try a book series he’d never otherwise consider, falling deep under its spell and reading for hours. I’ve been many selves there too. I have visited the Cape with my family of origin since I was a baby. My mom went her entire life as well. She died in 2008. Her memorial stone is situated there by a long, stone jetty. It’s a beauti ful place that she chose, right at the edge of the world. The first time I visited her memorial stone as a mother was in 2014. My firstborn was 10 months old and “mom” still felt a bit like a role I was play ing. That first time I visited and every other year that followed with my kids, I felt awkwardly aware of the part of me that wasn’t only their mom but a daughter too. That part of me was missing someone I really loved, whom my kids had never met. Acknowledging that part of me felt dangerous. I wanted to convey to my kids that I was happy and fulfilled. Even though I’d lost my own mom, I was here, solid and okay. I didn’t want them to be sad for me or afraid, so I dismissed this part of myself. I’ve experienced this desire to dissociate from parts of myself at different moments throughout my life, especially since becoming a parent. I taught preschool for 10 years at a local synagogue, at which I always tried to be like a Jewish Mary Poppins – magical, resourceful, a real mensch. I remember running into a student and their parents outside of Roman Gourmet with my own screaming 2-year-old over one shoulder. My sobbing 6-year-old was running away from me. I ended up shouting at both of them. I agonized over the discordance with how I’d wanted them to see me, floating around with an umbrella in my hand and a song on my lips. Later on, that parent told me it loosened something inside her to see me this way. It was comforting to know that even someone who is paid to be patient for a living loses it too. This reminded me of one of my favorite doctors who, when I told her I was scared during an examination, looked me in the eye and said, “I know. I hate going to the doctor!” Instantly she transformed from an authori tative arbiter of doom to a human who saw me. Something loosened in me. I think back on the people I’ve met over the years, from helping profes sionals to casual chatters at playgrounds to colleagues to bosses. I’ve always appreciated someone sharing their humanity with me. I feel more alive and present when someone is expressing something real to me, especially when it is connected to pain, fear or anger – those underbelly emotions we try to keep locked up. The women in this community who are parents and children themselves, who work and dream and collaborate, who support people in so many ways, and do all of it while walking in their weighted vests, must be able to set down the burden of also pretending it’s easy. I still struggle to toggle between the “steady mom” and “grieving daugh ter” identities, but I know that the endeavor is worth it. This year at the memorial stone, I finally talked to my mom. I told her I missed her. I cried. I did all of this in front of my family. They didn’t shatter. They understood. My kids will never meet my mom, but they know how much she means to me and how much I still love her. I hope they will also know that grief is livable and that it can exist alongside a whole bunch of other human experi ences. Most of all, I hope they know that every burden they may carry in their lives can be shared. Sarah Schwartz is a parent coach who helps caregivers find calm, sanity and wholeness, while raising their kind, confident kids. Pretending It’s Easy Find strength in sharing your whole self BY SARAH SCHWARTZ The author visits her mother's memorial stone annually when she travels to Cape Cod.
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