To the one whose heart is hurting,
The strange thing about grief is that you don’t understand it, not really, until you’re sitting in it. At least, that’s how it was for me.
I study psychology, so I was always pretty familiar with the five stages of grief, the idea that grief and healing aren’t linear, all those facts we spout off in a way that can sound more clinical than human. Grief is a process. It has stages. Steps. And be careful around “anniversaries,” those can bring up old feelings if you’re not careful. I knew all this, and I think that somewhere along the way I convinced myself that grief was a science, that I could pick it apart and dissect it into manageable bite-size pieces. I didn’t really have to grieve, I just had to put a checkmark next to Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance and I would be fine. I could move on.
If I’m being honest, I think I was a little scared of grief, of what it would do to me. So much of who I am is wrapped up in the idea that I can protect the people closest to me, and when I can’t, I don’t know how to reconcile that. Death is a control freak’s worst nightmare. Because as much as I’d like to be able to breathe for you, as much as I’d like to keep your heart beating with my own, I can’t.
Despite my fears, though, grief and I have become close friends this year. She sits at the edge of my bed when night falls and everything is quiet but my thoughts. She holds my hand while I cry when a song comes on that reminds me of pain I’d much rather forget. When the tidal wave comes to knock me down again, it is grief, not science, that drowns me at 4:00pm on a random Tuesday.
When people talk about anniversaries, they don’t really capture how much power the realization that you have spent one year without someone holds. You’ll think you’re fine, you’ll think you’ve moved forward, and then the clock strikes midnight and suddenly you remember. And how can you move on when it feels like such a betrayal to do so? No one tells you that the “stages of grief” are actually a cycle—it loops, multiple times, sometimes in one day, sometimes in five minutes, sometimes for weeks. It’s not a checklist or a to-do list. Healing doesn’t just magically happen overnight. We have to stop pretending that it does.
I’m starting to ramble, so I’ll just go ahead and spoil the ending of this letter for you:
There is nothing manageable about grief.
You have to allow yourself to sink before you can ever learn how to swim. There are going to be times when making it out your door is the victory of the day. Other times, you’ll find yourself laughing without feeling guilty for it. You’ll smile through the day and then cry yourself to sleep that same night. It won’t make sense. You’ll feel like there’s no end to the sadness.
But the only way out is through. You can’t avoid it, you can’t run from it. Instead you pull yourself out of bed, get dressed, go to work or school, come home, go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again, until one day it isn’t so hard. And I promise that day will come.
I won’t pretend like I have it all figured out. Far from it actually—I just had two anniversaries of my own, and I’m still feeling their effects. But I didn’t think I would be able to smile again, and I have. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh again, and I do. I was afraid my heart would be so crippled from grief that I would find myself far removed from the people I care about, but I found I’ve done the opposite. I cherish them even more now. I’m freer with my I love you’s and more generous with my hugs.
There is no limit on love, and there is no cap on caring. Be there with those you love in the joyous days and the dark ones too. Let them make you laugh in the good times and hold you while you cry in the bad ones. Honor the ones who aren’t here anymore by remembering those who are and loving them in the way that you felt loved by the ones you miss now.
We’re going to make it through this, not because we’re stronger than grief but because we can surrender to it. Your grief is nothing to be ashamed of. It is the echo of a feeling so profound that it crosses the chasm of death and builds a bridge to connect you with those who have passed on.
Because what is grief, if not love persevering?
Sincerely,
Someone who understands