Dear Griever...I Am Sorry

Dear New Griever, 

I'll start by saying I wish you weren't reading this. If you are, your world was likely flipped upside down.

Someone you fiercely love died. Someone you thought would be around much longer. Someone you imagined filling your days, months & years with more laughter, adventure, love, comfort & security. Someone who lit you up inside. Someone who was your safe harbor. Someone who was irreplaceable. 

I am so very sorry. 

I know the deep ache of waking and having the realization hit you like a truck before your eyelids crack. Every. Single. Morning. 

I know the insufferable pain that manifests itself as a headache, no appetite, insomnia, irritability, memory loss, deep depression, crippling anxiety & thoughts of wanting your life to end. 

I know the wicked inability to complete the most basic of tasks like showering, getting dressed, drinking water, brushing your teeth or making a bed.

You are not lazy. You are grieving. 

This is the first of many pictures I took to chronicle my deep grief. I had dropped Owen off at school less than 3 weeks after Geoff died. Gwen couldn't get out of bed that day. I was in the parking lot, watching the sun hang in a perfect blue sky. I was simply gobsmacked at how the world continued on with no regard to my husband no longer existing.

Nora McInerny talks about how wildly disorienting grief truly is, and this was abundantly clear to me very early on. 

I felt compelled to document my dark moments because I never wanted to forget what it felt or looked like to live through those early days. I'm grateful for all the crying selfies I took. They are tangible reminders of the still existing love, with nowhere to land. They are proof of surviving moments I surely thought would drag me under. They are evidence of my breaking & rising on repeat. 

New griever, I know how confused and broken you feel.

I understand the utter hopelessness that blankets your present...and your future. I remember wondering how I could possibly shoulder the heaviness of outliving my husband at 47 years old. It was the scariest, loneliest, hardest time of my life, and I want you to know some stuff. Stuff I wish someone had told me when I was in your shoes. 

1. The grief doesn't get easier or less. You get better. Remember that! As we heal and mend, we are quick to give grief the credit for getting smaller. Nope! It was you that did the work to climb back into the light and figure it the f@*k out. Give yourself credit for every inch you crept closer to joy. 
2. Lots of promises are made in those early grief days. Promises to check in, take you out, help with the kids, run errands, keep you company, include you in the all the things. Many of these promises will go unfilled & this is not a reflection on you. Again...nope! It happens to ALL OF US. People can't sit with your pain. Attention spans are very short. The dust settled for me around 8 weeks. That's when it got quiet. 
3. I thought I had a lot of friends. I really just knew a lot of people. My table shrunk drastically after Geoff died, and it hurt. I felt abandoned by many, but the right ones stayed. The perfect ones surfaced. I had 2 friends hold me up after Geoff died, faithfully & selflessly. These 2 friends seemed to appear out of nowhere and had not been close friends for decades. They answered every text, picked up every phone call. They were my sunshine until I could find my own. The lesson is this...people close to you are going to leave, and it'll feel like more grief and loss. Others will surprise the sh!t out of you & show up with their perfect timing, ready to support, celebrate and listen. Keep your door open. I promise some surprises are waiting.
4. It's gonna hurt for a long time. Don't resist the pain. Embrace the suck every time it visits. Burying your big emotions builds a monumental storm. When I began to accept that my reality isn't to feel better- or different- I made space for the grief. I told myself repeatedly, "It's supposed to be exactly like this. It's not supposed to be different." This is the beginning of acceptance. It's not skippable in a healing journey. 
5. Lean into new habits, or habits you used to know that fell by the wayside. I realized- quite by accident- that I love listening to music. Geoff turned the TV on whenever he was home, so music wasn't often played. After he died, I hated the silence, so I played music all day long. In the house. In earphones. And I realized I used to love playing music before I knew Geoff. It felt good to rediscover that piece of me. I also began to hike, do yoga, write, light candles and take more walks. I began looking forward to "working" these new parts of me, and in turn, they were helping me heal. 
6. Grieving is hopelessness. Nearly 18 months into grieving Geoff I've discovered that much of this is learning to rekindle your own hope flame...because no one can do it for you. It's been incredibly slow, steady work for me, but I'm actually dreaming and planning for my life again in small bits. And damn it if doesn't feel like hope! 
7. Stop wondering if you are "doing it right". There's no manual, map, checklist or how to video. Don't compare your first months to someone's third year. Returning to yourself is the hardest- most sacred- work you'll ever do. Your body knows exactly how to grieve. Just get quiet and listen...and do it often. 
8. If you have become a solo parent, it's a real b!tch. We have only ever parented as a duo, & you cannot be the parent you once were. Quit trying. This is where a whole lot of my shame and guilt hides. The pressure to want to lessen the hurt on our children is enormous, so we let things slide. I let tons go, and it felt like laziness. It's anything but. Stellar mom or dad status when you can barely change your clothes is impossible. You have never parented without your spouse, and everything is different. You also can't be them and you...because you are just one person. Navigating solo parenting in the shadows of death is HUGELY HARD, and I struggle with it multiple times a day. Get another widow friend to vent and worry with. This is one area where your married or divorced friends cannot hear or really help. 
9. Learn to enjoy yourself and your company. I was so afraid of the loneliness, but I wanted to be around people even less. I spent months alone, seeing only my children and my parents. I walked, hiked and wrote alone, and discovered that I quite liked being with myself. I also learned that being alone and quiet was an integral part of my progression. If something scares you, it's likely a good indication that you need to lean into it. 
10. Your person doesn't have to be dead to you. You can still maintain a relationship by learning to love someone no longer tied to a body. And drop the worry about other people thinking it's strange. This isn't their life. You can still talk to your person anytime you want. Write them letters. Look for signs, because I believe they drop often if we look. Mine are trucks of hay, 11:11 on the clock & roadrunners. My children also see Geoff as ducks, hummingbirds and the perfect sunset. I've noticed that I smile when I catch glimpses of Geoff in the world. It feels like a hug from Heaven. Talk about your person with others. Don't shy away from saying their name and telling their stories. They helped to build us in this glorious life, and that doesn't need to stop in death. 

This list could could be much longer, but I'm stopping at 10. Most new grievers can't absorb this much information anyhow. 

There's no finish line here. Zero timeline. But feeling your pain is a prerequisite to progress. There's just no getting around it. So stop being afraid of it and start feeling. As I say;

"Embrace the suck, because one day...it' won't."

keep going