How Queensgiving Saved My Life

 How Queensgiving
  saved my life.

I have a weird relationship with Thanksgiving. I think many of us do. The practice of gathering together with family and friends is a thing of true connection and something we don’t nearly do enough of, especially as creatives or makers, or small business owners on the hustle. This time of the year is our chance to purposefully slow down and reconnect.

Yet, I am in protest of a holiday that historically represents colonialism, supremacy, and genocide. But I have found a way to personally reimagine this holiday and create new meaning for myself and my chosen-family of friends and community.

In 2016, I invited several women to my home for something I call Queensgiving. The word is a play on Friendsgiving, and as the name implies, the gathering is composed of people I identify as Queens; worthy of praise, empowerment, love and respect. Queensgiving became a testament and proof that it was more than just a knock-off of Thanksgiving.

Queensgiving is deep connection and celebration of ourselves and one another. A confirmation that you are necessary in this life. Each person that I have invited throughout the years have played a supporting role in the many seasons of my life and I in theirs. Simply put, it is an intentional celebration of our support, reciprocity, and love for one another.

THE PUSH

I started Queensgiving in 2016, after having gone through a painful and traumatizing year, which began on my honeymoon.

December 31st, 2015–newly married and celebrating both my honeymoon and birthday at a spa on the island of Curacao with my now husband; I was brought to the side post-massage bliss and asked if I knew I had a lump in my neck.

That lump would soon grow twice its size in a matter of a few months. Coupled with a chaotic transition to my husband's health insurance and waiting for insurance approvals, that lump would undergo its first biopsy which led to the dreaded phone call no one ever wants to get from their doctor– it’s “malignant”.

I won’t get too into detail here, let’s just say two surgeries later, with a side of “85% chance of paralysis” (left side of my arm and shoulder) and 6 months of uncertainty, I made it through. My recovery wasn’t a Hallmark movie. It was sad. It was scary and when you are told you might lose parts of you, you are forced to find ways to cope with the trauma, all while people around me were throwing toxic positivity on me so that they felt better.

I didn’t die! - Yay!

I lived another day! - Yahoo!

I’m not paralyzed! - Yup. I know.

I consistently received this type of messaging which quickly diminished me and my ability to process and feel.

During the process of dealing with Dermatofibro sarcoma protuberans, I was also having to say goodbye to the matriarch of my family; my aunt Maria. The biggest influence in my life. All the parts I love most about me come from her.

AUGUST 28, 2016

The day before my dreaded surgery that was to have left me paralyzed, I sat in an ICU room with my family watching the oxygen levels go from 100 to 0, as Aunt Maria lost her battle to cancer. The next morning, I made my way to the airport to fly back to San Diego to deal with my possible fate. Being briefed prior to my surgery meant I had to sign paperwork acknowledging and consenting to the possibility of paralysis and any other impairments that might be caused as a result of the surgery. Yay for me.

Four hours later, and post-surgery, I was relieved that I beat the odds. I suffered nerve damage to the left side of my face and ear that I still have not fully recovered from to this day. But I also left with a broken heart, that kicked me into a deep depression.

The thing about dealing with grief, survivor's guilt, and trauma, is the constant feeling of being undeserving, lonely and hopeless. No one can truly understand until they experience it. But to give you a glimpse of what it felt like for me; I felt disconnected, nothing around me meant anything, sadly not even my husband. Those around me wanting me to be “happy” actually pushed me further into disappointment of my privilege of surviving. Which also meant I didn’t feel the need to be seen or be considered so I shrunk and I made myself small and invisible.

BEFORE CANCER

Prior to my journey with cancer in 2016, I was a well known persona in the wedding and events industry. I made a name for myself which also included high-profit margins, exclusive invites to industry parties, and more. But while in recovery, I started to reflect upon the lack of meaning in my life, and the lack of real and authentic connection with people around me. Luckily, there were a few people in the wedding industry who were solid, and I did have a solid few people outside of the wedding industry who really did show up and I am grateful for them. You know who you are 😉 I know in the beginning it was hard for you. Thank you for sticking in there with me.

Going through darkness is not palatable for many. In fact, I sort of got left behind by my “industry friends” because they didn’t really know how to be around me I can’t be upset with that. It’s a lot to take on. People genuinely do not know what to do, and that can sometimes turn into avoidance. I know because I did the same thing.

“I wish I would have called her more”. A reflection of how in my young adult years I prioritized parties and events to feel some type of love and importance over my family. I had a dying aunt who wanted me to be a part of her life. I didn’t know how to. I was scared and in denial. So I hid from it, only for it to come back to me. Leaving me empty. Lost. Lonely. I yearned for what it felt like to have her love. I wanted to hear her laugh one last time. Feel her warmth. Her friendship. Her love. I missed how it felt to be celebrated by her. She LOVED me. That I knew. And that love I still carry with me in my heart.

On her last days, I read her a caption from an instragram post that I would soon be posting to launch my new brand, The Roc Shop; a partyware line made for badass people. As she lay frail, with her breathing machine and feeding tubes and morphine drip, she listened intently. As I read the last sentence, she broke into celebration. She clapped, shot her arms in the air, and pumped her fists, in celebration of what was my first step into liberation unto myself.

It was that feeling I wanted to hang onto to so badly. To be seen and heard, loved and celebrated by another human being. I felt alive in her presence. I felt found in her movements. I wanted that feeling again.

BUILDING COMMUNITY STARTS WITH “HELLO”

In 2015 I started working out of a co-op called MakerPlace in San Diego (it is now permanently closed). I would work on the various laser cutters they had in the space. It was like a massive gym for makers of all kinds; woodworkers, metal smithers, designers, you name it. But unfortunately, it also gave a very toxic masculinity vibe. Which isn’t a great thing to pile onto a human being suffering in silence through depression, trauma, and grief. So I sort of retreated and made myself small and invisible.

But there was good energy there too! By 2016 I found refuge in the few women who worked out of MakerPlace. I met a group of ladies who were beyond amazing. One was building her tiny house. Another manufacturing custom shaped wood cheese boards with crystals as handles, a woodworker taking up hella space in the very male-dominated wood shop, and another was working on 3-D fabrication for props and fashion design. I admired them from afar and eventually worked up the nerve to start conversing. They would soon feel like something real. For the first time, in a while I had felt a spark and connection. We got deep. We got vulnerable with one another. We uplifted each other. We supported one another in business, in design, and in life! For the first time outside of my Aunt Maria, I felt seen and celebrated. I felt closer and more in-tune with myself. I felt like I could smile again and live in the light.

I wanted them to know how much they meant to me without being cheesy and awkward about it. I wanted them to know that in many ways, they saved me from the despair that I couldn’t seem to kick on my own or with therapy, or with pills.

“Play cool. Act normal” is actually a recurring conversation in my head while going through bouts of depression. For me, while in a depressive state, I can get either completely clingy or the complete opposite.

So I had to come up with a plan. How do I show my love and gratitude to all of these powerful women?

Hosting parties is my strong suit, something learned from my mom and my Aunt Maria. I decided that I could invite the women of MakerPlace and my closest friends to a Thanksgiving dinner. This would allow me to celebrate them, and show them what they mean to me.

To be honest, I don’t think some of them knew exactly what I was struggling with or how much they helped me by simply talking to me.

Together, we created an atmosphere that made us feel loved, celebrated and honored, just as a Queen should feel. That would become the start of a yearly tradition that everyone looked forward to. I could go into more detail about tips and tricks on how to make your “Queensgiving” a spectacular event. But that’s not what this post is about.

It’s about reaching out for help. It’s about taking a chance to open yourself up and choosing life. It’s about celebrating those around you. Sometimes we don’t use words to tell them what they mean to us. Sometimes we show love with action to reinforce love and support for one another. When you show people they are loved, they, too, learn how to show those around them that give purpose and meaning to their lives, the same act of love and celebration.

"In a world that feels so chaotic, so hurtful, so lost,  it was Queensgiving that gave me back 
   hope and love. 
."

In a world that feels so chaotic, so hurtful, so lost, it was Queensgiving that gave me back hope and love. Queensgiving became a staple in all of our lives to revisit those parts of us that we forget hurt and we forget need to be healed and celebrated. It became a reminder of our power and our liberation.

Our inaugural eight women gathering grew to 18 and then lingered throughout the years as some moved or enrolled in nursing and architectural school, went to travel around the world, or become mamas (I’m so fucking proud of them). Whether or not they can make it to Queensgiving they still get the invite. And I know they are all waiting for that text invite. It’s not just an invite, it’s the threaded invitation back into the lives of all the people you missed all year long, all in one place, sharing joy and realizing we have been here for eachother all along. The invite is a reminder that there are people on the other end who care about you.

A text thread changed my life. I hope it changed theirs as much as it did mine.

This is my ode to the wonderful women who have played a huge role in my life. My life is what it is because of the love you share with me. This is a true testament of the evolution and growth of our collective.

With gratitude and love,

Nic Roc

Note from Author: Post writing this blog post, we were to celebrate our seventh annual Queensgiving, but unfortunately, I became ill due to the good ol’ seasonal bliss of the cold and flu. Needless to say, Queensgiving did not happen this year. A bit devastating, but also, celebrating and paying gratitude to those in my life that have impacted me is not limited to a timeline or a season. Don’t worry, we are already planning the rescheduled gathering.