I Met Mel Robbins Cosmically in New York City

Three years after my eighteen-month-old daughter June died of neuroblastoma, by divine intervention, my world came full circle when my path crossed with Mel Robbins, a New York Times bestselling author, motivational speaker, and podcast host.

June passed away on March 13, 2022 and in the resourceless pediatric cancer world, in a society that doesn’t acknowledge nor comprehend child loss, I discovered Mel Robbins podcast. It was a life raft thrown to me from the great unknown. On October 6, 2022, the same week the podcast started, I began listening and never stopped.

I had no idea who she was. I wasn’t “into” motivational speakers. I thought they were a cliche. I knew people who loved them and I’d always judged those people. Not outwardly, but sort of in the periphery of their aura. They threw off a different, more desperate vibe.

Then June died and my identity was erased, including preconceived notions that existed before she became sick. What was the purpose of me living out the rest of my life when my daughter horrifically died? Everything prior to June’s diagnosis felt fake and forced. I didn’t want to go back to my old life, but I couldn’t see the path to forge ahead.

Who was I? I was tethered between life and death, existing in a sort of purgatory. I was eight months pregnant when June died. The intimacy of life growing inside of me while holding my child who had just taken her last breath was too much to bear. I felt closer to death than life.

In the bleakness of the aftermath of June’s death, some mornings, I’d muster the energy to drop off my oldest daughter at daycare. She was three and a half when her younger sister died.

It was March in Maine and it rained a lot and snowed some days. The bone chilling cold meeting the heat of my pregnant body momentarily offered me reprieve. I could feel. I had bodily sensations besides discomfort. I’d leave my daughter with her wonderful teachers, another type of relief, and return to my car fully encased in my grief.

With the preschool in the backdrop, fading in the rearview mirror, I’d drive away with no future plans, still in my pajamas, a quarter mile up the street, and pull into a parking lot of a little market that was built while June was dying. I’d buy a small hot coffee in a white paper cup and return to my car.

I’d sob into my lap as the cars directly in front of me on Route 1 rushed to work. People going about their days with urgency reminded me that life went on. People went to work and had lives. Children with cancer often did not. I’d learned throughout June’s treatment that parents of children with cancer, also did not.

I sat deeply within my grief in the front seat of my car for months. It was this sitting that saved me because, in the pain, I uncovered other things. At first, there was only the grief that June had died. An unsurmountable, incomprehensible circumstance that was so utterly unfair. It was the only grief I could channel and interpret.

But then, morning after morning, as I sat crying into my coffee, watching people go on with their lives, I realized I didn’t know how I would go on with mine. Did I want to?

Maybe I did for my living daughter and unborn son. I grieved June, my past life, who I once was and the many people I had lost along the way, which included myself.

It’s difficult to explain, however, as time went on I uncovered another major key player in my pain after losing June. I grieved the person I thought I would one day become.

Just after giving birth to sweet June, I’d applied to a masters in science program to become a Family Nurse Practitioner (FNP). I did homework on my days off from the hospital while June bounced in her swing beside me. “Bounce just a few more minutes Junie, mama’s almost done with her work,” I’d tell her. When I did complete the assignment, I’d strap June to my chest and we’d go on an hour-long adventure on a path through the woods. June would inevitably fall asleep, a symptom of the sickness.

In the months after June died, when I was still closest to her death, I saw a flicker of that same desire I once had to live. It was uncomfortable to acknowledge. It took the focus off my grief and June, so I shoved it away like it was a muddy dog and I was wearing white pants.

Perhaps it was the growing baby in my uterus, giving me life, or maybe it was the sticky residue of the past that kept returning. Those moments of joy I’d once shared with my babies before June became sick. The muscle memory of what it felt like to be alive in my body and to anticipate a future. The spark of life was undeniable, but I dressed it in shame.

Revelations were occurring when I discovered the Mel Robbins’ podcast.

I have no idea how Mel’s podcast came into my Spotify queue. Maybe Spotify was sick of listening to me cry, and was like, we have to offer this woman something.

From here on out, I’ll refer to her as Mel because at this point we met in real life which constitutes a first name basis. Besides, it’s a household name, and one my husband often rolls his eyes at. Although, if he only knew how much she’s inspired me to continue living, then he might give her a little more credit.

For months, I’d sit and cry, alone in the world, and without another human beside me who could possibly begin to understand my pain. Where is everyone? I’d wonder.

After drop off, I didn’t want to return to the house where June had lived her last days and taken her last breath. The house held memories within its walls and floors, within the cabinets and bedsheets, within the towels that I’d sopped up so much of her vomit with, and the children’s toys scattered and pushed into corners or thrown into bins.

For months, I’d remain safely in my car without watching the hours pass by and scroll my phone or call a friend. I’d open Spotify and listen.

I do remember when I first hear Mel speak, she was so full of exuberance and zest for life. I was a vampire craving that life, so I decided to listen again.

In the days after discovering the Mel Robbins Podcast, I’d drop my daughter off at school and drive to the coffee shop with purpose and intention even if it was just to buy a coffee, cry into it for a while, then play Mel’s most recent episode. I was so relieved when I learned she released two new episodes a week. It meant that for two of the seven days, I wouldn’t be entirely alone.

For months and months, I’d sit in the company of Mel and listen to the words and guest speakers she invited onto the show. Mel coached me into realizing that my life could begin whenever I decided I wanted it to. It was never too late. I could start over at any time. I could even reinvent myself. I didn’t have to go back to nursing which felt cruel on my body, mind, and spirit after my last patient was my dying daughter.

Slowly, Mel’s words and inspirations etched themselves onto the blank slate that was my life. Instead of seeing the blackness as an erasure of me and my past, I realized it was actually a new beginning. My perspective began to shift. I began to see that I was still me, and one day, I could live my fullest life again.

The best part was that this time around, I could make it my own design. I’d lost my daughter, a loss many people never expect a mother to recover from. Will I ever recover from losing June? Today, I believe the answer is yes.

Mel helped me to see my life’s potential in the shadow of June’s death.

Within my spiritual journey after losing June, I deepened my beliefs and in the periphery, Mel helped me to cope and to remember I had strength to create the life I wanted.

By the way, since I got to do it over, I wanted it to be beautiful.

When your child has died of a horrific disease under the isolating blanket of Covid, you can’t help but be alone, and I was. After June’s death, when the hospital and the staff disappeared into the treatment of other pediatric cancer diagnoses, we became a memory, and I felt what it was like to be truly alone.

Mel was the bridge and showed up every week, twice a week. I began to crawl out of the murky, muddy, slippery sinkhole of despair.

I found the light and I clung to it for dear life, for it reminded me why I wanted to live. I still didn’t understand how I would or could. I felt a lot of shame and guilt for wanting a life after June died, but nonetheless the spark was there, so instead of letting it go, I pursued it.

Three years after June’s death and after I started my life again, a best friend and I booked very expensive last minute tickets to see Mel on her Let Them Theory book tour in New York City.

I wore a gingham green onesie on the train matching the colors of her Let Them Theory tour. My husband dropped me off at the station and I couldn’t believe that after three years, I had arrived to the point where I was not only leaving my house, but I was boarding a train to travel three hours to New York City where I’d have to face the world. Three years ago, I could barely leave the house. Two years ago, I could barely get dressed. For years, I cried every day for June and then cried myself to sleep at night.

“Wow,” I thought as I rode the train to the city, “I’ve come so far.”

Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and metaphorically.

When my train arrived, I took 10 minutes trying to purchase my MetroCard. The people behind me in the subway grew impatient and shifted to another line. “I don’t know why my card isn’t working!” I sighed under my breath. Truth be told, I’d completely forgotten about the idiosyncrasies of the subway.

Finally, when I swiped the card and went to enter the subway, the card read “insufficient funds”.

“Is there another machine around here I can reload?” I asked a worker standing nearby helping an elderly couple through the gate.

“Straight that way” she said.

I started sweating. My friend had already arrived at the hotel and I was so incompetent. Maybe I shouldn’t have come, I thought.

I returned to the entrance of the subway as people billowed out from a train that had just unloaded. I pushed my suitcase through the metal bar effectively lodging it into the contraption. I couldn’t pass through. Again, the people behind me shifted to another line. Eyes started to roll. Mine rolled back into my head. Sweat beaded on my back. I need to shed a layer, I thought.

Somehow, I made it above ground. I began walking toward my hotel. My friend had just texted and was awaiting me in the lobby. It had been nearly a year since we last saw one another. I was thrilled. That night we would go see Mel Robbins LIVE.

I stopped briefly in front of Sephora and wondered if I should go in and ask for a bathroom. I decided against it. It was not a bathroom stop. I started to take off my sweatshirt again and then decided it was only a few more blocks to the hotel and I could do it there.

I picked up the pace and as I crossed the street, I looked to my left.

It was as if the crowds had parted.

There was a woman in a tan jumpsuit with “Let Them” in green lettering on the chest walking toward me. There was a small entourage of camera crew behind her.

It was Mel Robbins.

I had to speak.

I had to say something.

My heart leapt from my chest.

“Oh my god. Hi!” I said.

“Hi!” she said.

“Mel Robbins.”

“You know me.”

“I am here for your show tonight!” I tried to play it cool. I was totally uncool.

“Oh, come here, I love you!” she said and gave me an enormous hug.

“Oh my gosh. Mel, you are such an inspiration. I feel like you’ve saved me. My daughter passed away three years ago from cancer and I had no one. It was the same year you started your podcast and I started listening and you’ve helped me come out of this enormous black hole. I love you!”

“I’m so sorry. You’re here. You helped yourself,” she said. She hugged me again and said, “I love you. Let’s get a selfie.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. My body trembled. I was crying AND smiling. Pure joy. I can’t remember if I thanked her, but I think she felt my gratitude.

Today, I am rewriting my story. I’m applying the meaning and reinventing myself.

Every moment is a gift. Each one that unfolds is leading us to the next. In my case, which makes me believe in anyone’s case, Mel Robbins could be there, waiting to give you your next hug.

She was there for me, but she was right: I did this. I helped myself. She was a guiding force, but ultimately, I’ve done the work.

This is my recent reminder to never give up hope.

Everything has meaning.

Nothing is ever lost.

Maybe June played a role in my cosmic meeting with Mel. I’d like to think June was nearby.

June, alongside Mel, was written into my life. I can now see that the slate is no longer blank. It’s filled with endless possibilities and there is so much more space for me to draw. I lost my daughter and I can fill my life with exactly what I need.

Life without June is not a burden. It is a gift. It is an enormous gift because every day I choose to see it that way.