Last weekend I tackled changing my wardrobe. It’s a task I find quite difficult, and it’s a tradition in my life to keep putting it off as if I expected it to magically do itself.

On one hand, there’s my laziness. Going up and down to the storage room, always trying to find those empty spaces that never seem to exist and that appear to fill themselves. Taking out those clothes again, not sure if they’ll still fit, hoping they will. Hanging up those garments in the closet that, season after season, you think about retiring, only to decide against it once more because of the “just in case” factor. In my case, it’s always the same. And all this while sacrificing my weekend routine, where I try to spend my time on things I enjoy, and changing my clothes isn’t exactly one of my hobbies.

On the other hand, I also experience a kind of sadness, a nostalgia for times gone by. And even more so when it comes to this transition from winter clothes to summer clothes. I long for those longer days that seemed to stretch on forever. When most of us enjoyed time with family and friends in a different way. For getting away from the city and the noise it brings, not so much external as internal. For that time when the rush of daily life is put on hold, and the demands of utility and productivity tend to lessen, making room for contemplation and reflection.

I’ve always been in that majority. I’d never spent a whole summer at home until this one.

And looking at my beach clothes, those outfits that only exist for that specific time, the memory of what I experienced this summer vacation came back to me like a tsunami.

At the end of July, following a domestic accident involving my mother, my plans changed abruptly and, without warning, my suitcase and I were left, as they say, “high and dry.”

All my plans; all my longing for peace and quiet, for reading, for meeting up with friends and family, for walks on the beach… they all ended up packed into a small backpack for my trip to the hospital where I would spend my vacation. In a second, my life changed.

Today, in the fields of personal growth and business management, the conversation surrounding change and uncertainty management is abundant. As the human beings we are, children of the 20th and 21st centuries, we love to have everything under control and our plans well-structured. We want to know what step to take and, of course, what the next steps are. In short, we want a map of the path, and if it’s straight, all the better.

There are many courses, conferences or seminars on personal growth, business coaching or mentoring where this management is discussed extensively.

But is it possible to manage an unforeseen change? What do we mean by manage? Could I have done anything to change the course of my mother’s hospital admission or to change that diagnosis that I really didn’t like?

Language is important, and I believe that framing it as change management can lead us astray because it’s not about managing something, as if its timing, impact, or nature could be altered. Rather, it’s about managing one’s personal attitude and response to these changes.

I didn’t manage anything. I didn’t do anything useful or subject to any kind of measurable performance. I didn’t stand between change and my life. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even ask for a break or a few minutes to recharge.

And then fear appeared. Fear of the test results. Of a diagnosis I couldn’t avoid. Fear of knowing almost nothing. Fear, precisely, of not being able to manage it the way I manage other things in my life.

There was only one thing I could do, and that was to respond. To decide, once the shock had passed, what attitude to adopt towards the situation and how to embrace those fears.

We are surrounded by messages that can confuse us. They can lead us to believe that we can control everything, that we can manage everything, and therefore, that we can also eliminate from our lives the vulnerability that, as human beings, defines us.

It seems as if everything is manageable and that our personal skills and preparation are key to doing so. “If you want to, you can,” as they say. Well, I didn’t want to be in the hospital. I wanted, very much, for my mother to be well, and of course, I also wanted to be in my beloved Cantabria instead of in a hospital room.

Things happen to us. Reality imposes itself and reveals itself to us, often quite harshly. Suffering exists, and we don’t choose it. And even with a thousand protective shields, we are vulnerable and fragile.

Our hearts, made for love, are wounded, and we, often unintentionally, wound others.

Life, and living, is demanding. It requires us to put ourselves on the line, and this means getting our hands dirty to the core. It demands that we pay attention to it and give our response.

I confess that I find it very difficult to miss seeing my beloved Cantabrian Sea. I miss my morning walks along the Sardinero beach and my Regma cream ice cream.

I am aware of how much I have missed not being able to spend time with my family and my dear friend Elena, and how much I have missed my little summer routine.

While putting away my beach bag, I realized once again how little I control despite wanting to have everything under control.

But at the same time, my heart swelled when I thought about how lucky I had been to be able to care for my mother. With my many limitations and insecurities, but also with the conviction that I was exactly where I was meant to be. And what a tremendous power it is to know that we are where we are meant to be…

One of the doctors I’ve been lucky enough to meet on this journey of illness said something to me when we were saying goodbye that made me think a lot: “Thank you so much, Marta, we’ve created a bond.”

A bond… Aren’t bonds what make the difference?

Today I pause to give thanks for every connection. For every encounter I’ve experienced this summer, in a different and unexpected way.

For having lived it. For being able to tell the tale. For being able to look at my life’s journey with hope despite the uncertainty, knowing that I can’t control everything that will happen to me, but I can control how I want to live it, how I see it, and with whom. Because the journey isn’t walked alone, but with and alongside others. And thank goodness for that…