Everything Is Different. Or Maybe Everything Is the Same: Grief, Aging, and James Van Der Beek

“I am worthy of God's love simply because I exist. 

And if I'm worthy of God's love shouldn't I also be worthy of my own? 

And the same is true for you.

“And if the word God trips you up...you can take the word God out and your mantra can simply be 'I am worthy of love,' because you are." 

-James Van Der Beek 

If you could read the texts between my high school friends and me yesterday, you’d see us deeply impacted by the loss of someone who shaped part of our adolescence and who we were becoming.

Our friend group – teen girls & guys, most of us a mix of nerdy student athletes – met weekly at rotating houses to watch new episodes of Dawson’s Creek. We’d poke fun at the over-the-top, intellectually charged dialogue, root passionately for our chosen corner of the Pacey-Joey-Dawson love triangle (ahem, team Pacey 🙋‍♀️; sorry James), watch the first romantic gay kiss on prime-time TV, and share innocent laughs together. 

Sometimes, we’d shoot pool or play ping pong in my friend’s basement or watch an episode of South Park. Most of us only had beepers; cell phones were still not the norm yet. 

It was such a different time. 

Before the show even premiered, I briefly met –okay, high-fived along with a couple hundred other teen girls – James Van Der Beek & his costar Joshua Jackson at the Roxy Club in NYC, where Usher performed at a Seventeen magazine event. None of them were household names yet. The outing was celebrating my friend’s Sweet Sixteen. At the time, it felt like nothing more than a cool story; now it feels like a time capsule.

My cohort – mostly born in 1980/81 – is the in-between generation. We push back when Gen X rejects us from their ranks, recoil at being labeled Millennials, and pride ourselves on having lived fully in the time “before” and the “after.” Straddling worlds, translating cultures, and constantly being forced to adapt was what defined us. We were raised in the gap between analog and digital, certainty and chaos –adapting became our native language. 

We were seniors, about to graduate high school when Columbine happened. 

We watched OJ’s car chase on a box TV atop a rolling cart in middle school. 

We saw the Challenger space shuttle explode when we were little.

We played with NKOTB Barbie dolls. 

We watched Rodney King beaten on the evening news as 6th graders. 

We played Oregon Trail and Number Crunchers on floppy discs—not the hard, 3 1/2 inch ones, but the original 8 inch flexible ones. 

We discovered new music from the radio and from Carson Daly on MTV, watched Kurt Loder’s breaking news report about Kurt Cobain’s death, dressed up as Spice Girls for Halloween, learned the choreo to N’Sync and Back Street Boys and crooned Boyz II Men songs. 

We waited forever for AOL dial up, lurking in early chat rooms pretending to be adults, many of us still owning our original goofily named AOL or Yahoo email addresses. 

We hung out at the mall, played spin the bottle, carried cash and coins. 

We partied in our friends’ basements, at the local quarry, or later at skeevy bars flashing barely believable fake IDs. 

We drank Hard Mike’s Lemonade and Bartles & Jaymes Wine Coolers at the Jersey Shore after prom, got high on weed that was far less potent than what’s available today – before dispensaries, designer strains, warning labels, or gummies – made mixed cassette tapes for each other from songs recorded on the radio, and bought our first CDs together.

And then we watched the Twin Towers fall at the beginning of our junior year of college.

Growing up right outside the city, we all knew people who were there. 

We watched Varsity Blues in the movie theater, along with the first Fast & Furious, Interview with a Vampire, Good Will Hunting, Lord of the Rings, The Lion King, Home Alone. 

We became parents in the social media age, pressured by Pinterest Perfect Parties and #BossMom expectations. 

We cling to our side parts and ankle socks and the greeting “yo.” 

The texts between us yesterday included: 

“Wait, he was only a few years older than us?! That can’t be. We’re not that old.” 

“Have you had a colonoscopy yet?” 

“I love you.”

“I miss you.” 

“Boy, parenthood is hard.” 

“Were we this difficult as teens?” 

“How’s your Mom?” 

“Do you think we’ll have another reunion with how much everyone hates each other right now?” 

“Do you know how so-and-so is doing?” 

“I don’t remember politics being this divisive when we were younger.” 

I followed James Van Der Beek’s career and social media over the years. Sometimes I rolled my eyes at his earnestness – but then would find myself moved and inspired by his willingness to risk being cringe for the sake of sharing tidbits of wisdom and hope. 

I wish more of us were unafraid of being cringe and more committed to providing and sharing hope. 

He spoke openly about miscarriage and grief. About faith. About respecting the land. About devotion to his wife. About leaning into both the incredible and exhausting parts of parenthood. And about loving people across differences and disagreement. 

Recently, I’ve also found myself in conversation with friends and colleagues about watching our mentors retire or die – and the quiet fear that we are not yet equipped to step into those roles, even if we are already filling them. 

Authority feels different now. Respect for wisdom feels different. 

Anything representing establishment or tradition or normalcy or old can feel suspect. 

But perhaps that’s what every generation feels when they come into their own. 

We wore flannels, peroxide-bleached our tips, pierced our belly buttons and tongues, got tramp stamp tattoos. We rejected what came before us, too. 

Everything is different. 

Or maybe, everything is still the same. 

If you’re my age, don’t forget to schedule your colonoscopy. 

And maybe also repeat the mantra: I am worthy of love. 

Thank you, James. 

As a therapist, I often sit with clients navigating identity shifts — aging parents, growing children, changing roles, cultural fragmentation. 

Grief doesn’t just come from losing people we know personally. Sometimes it’s the loss of eras, of symbols, of who we were when we first saw ourselves reflected back on screen. 

If adapting defined us then, maybe choosing love can define what comes next. 

For others and for ourselves. 

Maybe this chapter is less about adapting — and more about softening.

Maria Paredes is the owner and Clinical Mental Health Counselor Supervisor at Three Birds Counseling in Greensboro, NC. She believes ALL bodies have worth and that ALL individuals deserve to enjoy food, move in ways that feel joyful, treat their bodies with kindness and gentleness, and experience authentic connection with themselves and others. She also works with individuals experiencing anxiety, depression, ADHD, OCD, trauma, infertility/pregnancy loss, and PCOS. Maria teaches courses in UNC-G’s Counseling department and provides clinical supervision and training to new professionals working toward their licensure as therapists or dietitians. Maria is Mom to 3 young girls and hopes that they will grow up to experience the wonder and power of all their bodies have to offer, without believing they must shrink themselves.