A few days ago I wrote one of my favorite blogs. Ever. It was all about the Adventure race I participated in this past weekend. It was heart-warming, funny and chock-full of inspirational and applicable life lessons. I spent about 3 hours getting it just right. Then – in the moment I was sending it off to my editor, of course – I realized I had two versions saved in two different places with the same file name. Hmm.

I was rushing because I needed to leave to go pick up my son from cross-country practice. In my haste, I replaced one file with the other. You guessed it – the final draft version with the earlier brainstorming version. And – poof – just like that it was gone! Sigh.

When I complete a piece of writing, it’s kind of like giving birth – the peaceful moment when labor has ended and you have a beautiful creation in your arms. Seriously, I’m hardly able to contain my excitement and share “my baby” with the world.

But in this particular moment I felt more like I was in full on labor – in a state of shock, gasping for air! I gradually came to my senses enough to call a computer service technician. I spoke to a gentleman – far from hopeful given what I had shared with him – who told me to bring my laptop in, and he would see what he could do.

First I had to pick up my son at school. Along the way, I took a phone call that I had been waiting to receive. The conversation was sensitive and emotional, concerning a young family member that has been distressed.

So by the time I arrived at the computer store, I was emotionally hanging by a thread. The gentlemen I previously spoke with over the phone greeted me – knowing the scenario – and promptly went to work attempting to retrieve the file.

Within about 5 minutes or less – he closed my laptop and said, “I’m sorry.” I had physically replaced a newer version of the file with an older, previous-draft, incomplete version of the same name. He didn’t want to delay the inevitable – which was for me to get home as soon as possible and attempt to rewrite it all from memory.

I choked back tears – barely able to squeak out a passable “thank you”.

Attempting to mask my devastation, I made a beeline for the parking lot. My son followed – still with absolutely no idea or explanation of what the heck was going on.

Once in the car, I went into full-on ugly cry. I was so disappointed. I had worked so hard. I felt in sync and inspired writing that blog. And just like that – it was gone. Like it had never existed. All that time, energy and creativity wasted. The hours I spent writing and editing multiple drafts down the drain. How would I possibly re-create it? I felt panicky. Frustrated. Downright pissed.

I went through the first 4 stages of the grief and loss process in my head – one after the other – all during the short drive home.

1. Denial: “There’s no way that just happened. I’m going to open up my computer, and it’s just going to be there. That guy didn’t know what he was doing. I’ll be able to find it.”

2. Anger (I’m really good at this stage – lots of practice –but spending way less time there these days): “Are you f***ing kidding me? That did not just happen! This is bullshit! I’m such an idiot!”

3. Guilt/Bargaining: “What have I done? Maybe if I just hurry up and start writing again, it will miraculously all come back to me verbatim, word-for-word, exactly as it was. If ever I was going to be gifted with a photographic memory, now would be a good time.”

4. Depression (fueled by Drama): “This isn’t possible. This is a tragedy. This is the worst day ever. Everything is going wrong. I’ll never be able to recreate it. I might as well give up. Throw in the towel.”

My son was being very quiet. Realizing I hadn’t said a word to him since he had entered the car, I tried to redirect my sorrow and began asking how his day was. He was very distant. Muttering one-word answers to my questions while staring out the passenger side window.

Sensitive to pretty much everything at this point, I went into mom-worry mode. I began repeatedly asking him what was wrong, pushing him to talk to me.

I felt like he wanted to say something, but just wasn’t saying it.

My mom-dar was accurate.

What came out of his mouth was a complete surprise!

“I think you’re over-reacting about this whole thing.”

Silence. Silence. Silence. Remember to breathe.

OUCH!!!!!!!!!

I had a knee-jerk reaction and began lashing out, telling him he had no idea what it felt like to pour your heart and soul into something, make a stupid mistake and have to live with the consequences (although I’m sure he will get his chance at some point).

It was like an Emmy-winning soap opera performance.

I went on and on and on. And on.

Side Note: Gee, I wonder why my son would be hesitant to tell me what he was thinking? Ugh.

Once we got home – he retreated to his room as I set at the kitchen table – head in hands – trying to calm down, figure out what now and motivate myself to start wracking my brain and re-writing. I shifted into the fifth stage of grief and loss.

5. Acceptance: “There’s nothing I can do to change it now. Stewing about it isn’t getting me any closer to an acceptable and productive outcome.”

And then what I’m referring to as stage 6:

6. Moving Forward: “How can I use this scenario to learn what I need to learn, as well as teach my son a valuable life lesson?”

The answers that came to me were not necessarily what I expected.

It was more than the obvious – don’t replace your newer word doc with an old one. Or slow down and take your time, so you don’t make these “stupid” little mistakes.

I went to the base of the stairs and called for my son. Believe me – he was less than happy to heed my request as he descended the stair case.

I started by admitting that in the grand scheme of things this really wasn’t that big of a deal. I had let the combination of disappointment, rushing around and emotional overwhelm get the best of me, culminating in a perfect storm.

I acknowledged that from the moment he entered the car (I was still on the phone – hanging up just as I was walking into the computer service store), he had no explanation of where we were going or what was going on. I apologized for that and let him know that I could understand how overwhelming it must’ve been for him.

I was human. I was having “a moment”. And in the future – whether with me or with someone else he cares about – sometimes it just feels good to be reminded that everything will be OK – especially in the moments you’re unable to see it for yourself.

I assured him that my feelings and emotions were not his fault, and he had no responsibility to make me feel better. But also that simply saying – “I’m sorry that happened, Mom. I can understand why you feel disappointed. You know it’s going to be OK.” – could work wonders.

We all need acknowledgement of our feelings at different times. Reminders of our worth and abilities, especially in moments of distress. That everything is still alright, despite disappointments. I like to call it “backup.”

And who knows, maybe I was meant to “lose” the content in my original blog so that I would write this one. Maybe this will be the exact message that someone will need to hear – and that will make it all worth it.

Apparently it was exactly the life experience that I needed – since it was graciously offered up to me with just the push of a button.

Now if I can just remember everything I learned from this experience and practice what I preach with my son when it’s his turn to need backup.

Live. Learn. Repeat when necessary.

Any part of this story resonate with you? Do you know that feeling? Had a similar experience? What did you do? What did you learn? Share comments below.

And remember to click on this week’s Adventure Challenge and put thought into action.