Where Sadness Can Sit
Lauren Adegoke
For a long time, sadness scared me. I learned that fear early.
In the military, sadness wasn’t something you lingered in. At West Point and beyond, I learned how to move quickly — into the next role, the next city, the next version of myself.
There wasn’t much room to sit with loss.
You learned how to function, how to adapt, how to keep going.
That kind of life taught me how to savor moments because everything was always temporary. I became very good at making the best of what was in front of me. But I also learned to be wary of sadness. I had seen what deep depression could look like, and it felt like giving into sadness was dangerous — like it could swallow you whole.
Speed felt safer.
When I left the military, I was surprised by how overwhelming freedom felt.
Suddenly there were choices everywhere.
I had friends who seemed to move through life with ease, while I felt like I needed structure to exist within. I told myself there was an order to things — that I had to earn the life I wanted.
Get married first.
Save enough money.
Be responsible enough.
Accomplished enough.
Only then would I be allowed to build the thing I was dreaming of.
So I stayed functional, but not settled. Always preparing, never arriving.
Living in a kind of purgatory where I was capable, but waiting.
What I didn’t realize was that I was still running — this time from sadness.
Rooster and Hen changed that for me. Not because it fixed anything, but because it made sadness feel safer.
Our executive director showed me, again and again, that sadness didn’t have to mean collapse. More than that, she was willing to hold it with me. I could reach out and say, “I’m sad,” and I knew she wouldn’t rush me past it or try to spin it into something positive. She would stay.
For the first time, I learned that sadness could be something you move through, not something you fall into.
And when I finally stopped running — when I let the rain of sadness come — something unexpected happened.
The clouds lifted.
Not all at once, not dramatically.
But slowly, I could feel the sun again.
I could dream again.
Now, I’m learning how to plant roots. How to stay.
How to hold both the good and the hard from my military years without needing to escape either. I can honor the version of myself who survived through speed, and still choose a different way of living now.
This is what Rooster and Hen has given me: not an answer to grief, but a place where sadness is safe enough to sit — long enough for something new to grow.
♥️
After sharing this story, I paused to notice where my heart is now.
The Heart I Chose
I chose the teal heart.
It feels heavy to me — the weight of what sadness has held over the years.
But it’s soft, too. Rounded. Smoothed.
I’ve learned how to speak about grief in ways that are easier for others to hear. Palatable. Interview-ready.
If I’m honest, I’d probably turn it over.
“Choose Kindness” is beautiful — but my grief doesn’t fit neatly into a slogan or pithy statement.
It’s heavier than that.
And softer, too.
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