Grief
As time approaches 8 months since Gaylen's passing - I sit in reflection, as I often do.
I am humbled by the truth that nothing feels different or better.
What I mean is: I feel the same level of sadness, emptiness, and brokenness as I did on day one.
I never expected to be over it, I never expected to be just fine, but I did expect that something - anything - would shift.
In my life experience, you can usually move yourself through *anything* with tools and effort…but this…this grief - it seems to have its own timeline. And I am humbled by it daily.
The truth is, I don't see it changing for a long time - years…
That's new - and that's just one of the million things that I never knew came with grief.
People tell you that the first year is hard. They tell you that time is one of the only healers.
I can see that, but my concern with time is that, the further away we move from this, the less I'll remember.
How does one reconcile with that?
I don't want to forget. Yet, that seems to be one of the only options.
This experience, this upheaval, this gift - no one really tells you about it. Not in our culture anyway. The way that our culture navigates grief embarrasses me. It breaks and isolates people beyond where they are already broken. As if it isn't enough that life, and the world doesn't wait for you (because it can't)…you are expected to move on - and move on quickly.
And it is no surprise that this year, at least 80% of my clients are navigating grief - grief of a parent, of a sibling, a partner, a child…
One of the blessings of this experience is that I am more relatable.
I can see it when they walk in and I can hear it when they speak. Initially, they gloss over their grief almost expecting that we won't be spending any time there, expecting me not to understand or not to care. They feel like there is something wrong with them, and they wonder why they can't get over it.
PAUSE.
Can't get over that someone died? WHY should this ever be something that we need to get over?
In this experience my role has been simple. Validation and a reminder to give themselves GRACE. There is no rush. Someone died, we are learning a new way of being, and this process is brutal. Grief is relentless. It seems to never ever run out of power or energy - even when you honor and move that energy, it steadily and consistently rebuilds and replenishes itself. We have to find ways to honor this process. The trick is trying to honor this sacred process in a culture that doesn't seem to have time for it, let alone understand.
Sometimes they wonder how I feel about this process. I tell them the truth.
How do I feel about grief?
It feels like the pain in my chest could shatter my fucking rib cage.
When I really allow myself to be in it, I can feel my entire body pulsing - I hold the center of my chest and remind myself to breathe. I've never known the depths of pain like this - of emotional pain turned physical. How is this kind of pain even possible?
It feels like my heart has shattered into a million pieces, and I am perplexed that there isn't a stronger desire to mend it - rather I find myself examining the pieces and wondering what they meant to me in the first place.
It's every emotion all at once. And the breath is one of the only tools I have. The breath and sobbing in the bathtub. And I allow it. I allow it all. I know enough about energy to know that it needs and wants to move, so I will honor this process every single time.
Sharing this with you now is intense, and vulnerable, but I know there is value in sharing it. I see it when I validate clients. I see and feel their energy shift in a matter of seconds, with just permission to be exactly where they are. No need to rush. Our friend, Grief, is always waiting. They know and I know. It's relentless, it's brutal. It is also beautiful and one of the most clarifying experiences in life.
A brutally clarifying, heart-shattering, inevitable, beautiful gift.
Because without death, without an ending, how can we know what we are really living for?
