I remember when I used to hear people say that grief never really left you, you just learned to make room and carry it. I always thought there was something wrong in that… like the people who would say that were in some way still grasping for something that wasn’t there anymore… and someday they’d find it and realize they could be “free” from grief.
This, of course, was coming from the same bit of the brain that thinks that I know how to handle situations I’ve never even experienced better than those I’m observing⎯like a couch quarterback or a know-it-all “parent” who hasn’t had any children yet.
I didn’t know what I was talking about.
To start with, I thought that grief was bad. And I have no reason to want to carry bad with me. Why then, would I want to ever learn grief and make room for it?
But today marks two years of the day one of my dearest friends stepped into Heaven. I’ve learned a few things and I’ve decided to share my experiences and observations, for the day that you will inevitably find yourself grieving the loss of someone you love.
I want to first recognize that I am speaking from my experience. I am sharing from the perspective of the loss of a best friend. I have not lost a spouse, a parent, or a child. The closest death to me, prior to this loss, was my 17-year-old dog. That loss was it’s own kind of loss… as I’m sure every loss is.
I also recognize that every person grieves and processes differently. I can only give from what I have… and this is my experience. These are my takeaways, two years from the day I knew I wouldn’t see her again, this side of Heaven.
The world carries on… and that’s okay.
The loss I experienced was felt by many, but it wasn’t felt by the world. It wasn’t even felt by every person in my community. MANY, yes, but every? No.
I’ve found that the world carrying on is actually a good thing. If everything stopped altogether… how would we all be lifted from that space of overwhelming grief? The normalcy and routine of the world continuing to spin was part of what eventually pulled me out of my despair and into living again.
My sister calling me to come hang out…
My son inviting me to play…
The weekly breakfast dates at my grandparents…
Each piece of normalcy helped piece me back together.
The loss is felt because of the space made in our hearts, minds, and lives for them.
The moment someone steps out of our lives, be it through death or another exit, the loss we feel and grieve is because of the space they took up in our life. We gave them room in our minds, our hearts, our schedules… and any other area. And the moment they are gone, the space they once took up is now a hole.
And that hole screams at us that there is absence.
The hole screams that our normal is no longer available.
It’s uncomfortable, but it is inviting.
It invites us to hold that space sacred. To honor it, feel the loss, and let it be filled again someday with the love, attention, conversations, and thoughts of someone else.
Grief is multi-faceted.
I’ve always understood grief to be a heavy, uninvited weight.
Something to be dealt with and released.
I’ve learned that grief is also in the space we hold them in forever.
And it is in that space that we learn to carry them forward.
We honor them, talk about them, laugh with others about memories with them, and bring them into where we are in life now… even when they’re not physically with us.
And it’s in this that I realize that grief isn’t bad…
It feels heavy at first, and we wonder how we will be able to carry it. But as we step forward each and every day, carrying them with us, we begin to grow stronger in how we carry them.
Someday, the grief we hold for them feels light and familiar and now holds its own space.
We love them and show them love differently now… but we still love them.
And it is here that I reside now.
I think of her often.
I laugh.
I cry.
I hold the space for who she was in my life… and I am grateful for what I had.
To have never known her at all wouldn’t be worth trading for the way I get to honor her now.
What a gift she was.
I miss you, Amity Lynn.
I’ll see you in 85 years!