Finding Time to Grieve Years After Your Loss

Finding Time to Grieve Years After Your Loss

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The idea of finding time to grieve may sound ridiculous. At least for those being crushed by the weight of early grief, especially after losing a child.

But when grief is years or decades old, it isn’t always easy to find time to express and release our constant grief. The grief buried below the surface of our daily activities.

Grief is a bereaved parent’s constant companion. Much like a shadow that clings to us wherever we go. As long as our child is dead, we live with grief. There is no “getting over it” or “moving on.” At least not in the way those terms are usually implied.

Instead, we must learn how to accommodate grief as a fundamental part of life. Over time, the pain of grief feels less intense and overwhelming. Many learn to make needed adjustments so it doesn’t interfere with normal routines and day-to-day activities.

Once you’ve lost a child, the idea of what “normal” means is completely transformed.

Normal includes daily thoughts of a child who is frozen in time. A child who is never able to age as they should. The finer details of that beautiful child and their life become blurred as the years pass. This is especially true and painful when you lose a young child. One that you only got to spend a few wonderful years (or months, days, hours, or minutes) with.

It’s been over a decade since my 4-year-old daughter died. I have certainly adjusted to the new normal of life. I’ve learned how to enjoy and savor what life has to offer despite the gaping hole still left inside me from losing her.

In fact, life has gotten to a place where I find myself needing to make a concerted effort to find time to actually grieve.

As I said before, it’s not that my grief is gone. To the contrary, the loss of a child changes your DNA. You never experience life in the same way as you did before they died. But that doesn’t relegate you to a life of misery and despair.

You can harness your grief in a way where life becomes more profound and meaningful than before. Some become so good at adjusting to living with grief, they simply need to express it outwardly from time to time.

One of the ways we learn to adjust to life without our child is by compartmentalizing our grief in order to function in the world around us.

Over the years, grief becomes like those various piles of clutter that build up around your house. The chore of having to sort through them and figure out where things belong and what to get rid of is uncomfortable and taxing. So you shove the “clutter” away just to get it out of view. Of course, with the intention of sorting through it some other time.

But before you know it, your emotional compartments are overflowing. Just like those piles of clutter in your house. And cramming more “clutter” into them becomes more and more difficult. That clutter of unwanted feelings from grief is like pressure building up under a volcano or earthquake fault line.

You know that at some point the pressure will become so great, it will have no choice but to erupt. And it can erupt with a force that can destroy everything in its path. Just like in those old cartoons, the closet will become so overstuffed that when you open the door to put something else in, you’ll become buried in the avalanche of unwanted clutter. Or in this case, emotions.

The best way to deal with grief as the years pass is to find smaller, healthy ways to let off steam. Relieve the pressure building up below the surface before it becomes destructive.

It’s like pulling out a small pile of that emotional clutter and going through it. No matter how bothersome, stressful, or painful it may feel. And then repeating the process little by little, again and again, over time.

For me, I usually turn to writing about how it feels. While I write on a public blog, for others it could be in a journal or a letter to your child. Other times I find the simple act of walking quietly in nature releases some of the pressure.

Other options might include sharing your thoughts with a support group or counseling — online or in person. Or maybe doing something in honor of your child, like volunteering or donating. Some may choose to look through pictures and create an album or scrapbook.

Whatever it may be for you, it’s just important that you make the time to process your feelings before the pressure gets anywhere close to erupting.

There’s no right or wrong answer to how you choose to express your grief after many years have passed.

You do whatever feels right for you. The important thing is that you do it. And you can take some amount of comfort in knowing that you’re never alone on this journey.

All you need to do is look, and people who are experiencing the same journey will always be there for support and help along the way.

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

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I am adrift in an endless sea of grief.

As I float along, the world continues to go on around me as if I am walking among the bustling crowds. But my feet haven’t touched dry land since September 30, 2009. The day my 4-year-old daughter drowned, I was unwillingly thrust into this watery journey.

Without warning — and in a matter of moments — my daughter’s sudden death unleashed a monstrous tsunami of indescribable pain. It was so huge and so dense, it blocked out the light of the sun. In complete darkness, it crashed down upon me and destroyed life as I knew it. Then the undertow dragged me kicking and screaming out to the middle of a deep sea of grief where a violent storm of emotions raged around me.

For months on end, the giant waves of grief would crash over me and shove my body under the water where I choked on anguish and despair.

Then the undercurrent of that same wave would spit me back out. Forcing me to tread water until the next waves of emotions pummeled my weakened body. It felt endless and torturous.

I thought many times it would be easier if the water would take my own life in the way it took my daughter’s. But for some unknown reason to my wearied mind, my body just continued to go through the motions and fight for survival.

Without really knowing how, my flailing hands began grabbing lifelines that had been thrown my way. These were lifelines of love and support from family and friends. They came from grief counselors and other bereaved parents. Parents who had already learned how to survive in this very same storm, and whose compassion inspired them to reach out and help others through this treacherous journey on the sea of grief.

Buoyed by their love and support, I began weaving these lifelines together to build a makeshift raft. One that could give my aching body a rest from the constant struggle to stay afloat.

As my raft of support took shape, the waves seemed to come a little less often and didn’t feel quite as intense.

Of course, they still came. And when they did, they still crashed over me and left me feeling horrible and defenseless. Yet, despite my continued pain, my body was able to start the healing process now that I had a raft to cling to.

I slowly started healing. And I began to focus my growing energy towards weaving together more lifelines into a bigger and stronger vessel. One that could better protect me from the stormy sea. I discovered that the more I shared my feelings with those willing to listen, the longer and more plentiful my lifelines became. And it provided more material to build with.

As my raft began transforming into a sturdier vessel of support, I got better at understanding how to navigate the waves of emotions in ways that didn’t feel so debilitating as before.

I began to see that trying to steer clear of the waves altogether only made them more dangerous and damaging. Every time I tried to outrun the wave, I ended up getting caught in the wave’s impact zone. Meaning, the place where it has the most power to pull me under and hold me within the churning currents coming from every direction. This is where grief is the most intense and agonizing.

So instead of trying to avoid the waves altogether, I decided to learn to ride them as a surfer does. I embraced the understanding that these waves of emotions were temporary moments of time that would eventually end.

Over and over again, I practiced finding my balance to ride across the tube of each wave. The place where the water was smoother and had less chance of pulling me under.

It wasn’t easy; learning anything new and outside your comfort zone can be difficult and challenging. But when you keep trying, you learn new techniques through trial and error. And eventually, you get better at it.

Once I became better at surfing the waves of emotions, I was able to ride them to a place on the sea of grief where the storm didn’t constantly rage.

In calmer water, I looked for the land I was taken from. I still desperately wanted to go back there and return to everything I once knew.

But as I scanned the endless horizon, I came to understand that the loss of a child is so profound, there is no going back.

All we can do as bereaved parents is set a new course. We must go to uncharted waters where we must learn to exist in a world without the children we lost.

These days, the water I float on is mostly calm. I’ve learned to appreciate that there is an abundance of beauty and love in this new world I live in. My boat is now large and sturdy, and I can steer it in any direction I want.

Over time, I’ve been able to find water shallow enough where I can touch and walk along the sandy bottom and easily interact with the world of dry land. Even if it is within the confines of the sea of grief.

Unfortunately, no matter how far I’ve come and how many new positive experiences I can create, I always feel the water as it continually blows across my face and body. It is a constant reminder that I will never leave the sea of grief.

Most days the wind that blows the water is a gentle breeze. Other times, a storm begins to brew. The wind grows stronger, and the pain of the stinging, salty water becomes more noticeable and intense. Some storms are predictable each year. Like the time leading up to the anniversary of my daughter’s death. But mostly the storms are random and unexpected.

I can’t keep the storms from coming or completely navigate away from them. But I can sail through them knowing they are only moments in time. And just as they have a beginning, they always have an end.

As I sail along this sea of grief, I will continue to throw lifelines out to those I come across just starting out on their difficult journeys. Thankfully, I’ve come to a point in time where I have plenty to spare.

For those of you reading this who are treading water in the constant waves of emotions, know that you are not alone. You’ll learn to build your own vessel. You’ll find your way to calmer waters. And if you only look, you’ll find plenty of others to help and guide you on your way.

Living in the Shadow of a Child’s Death

Living in the Shadow of a Child’s Death

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What does it mean to live?

The fact that our hearts are beating, blood is flowing, and brains are functioning as we read this means we’re alive, right? But for those of us who have lost a child, I have to wonder if we’re really living?

It doesn’t matter their age or the circumstance of our child’s death.

We stop living when we hear those horrible words, “Your child is dead.” In that dreadful moment, we go from living to merely existing.

Our hearts still beat and our blood still flows. Our brains still think. But every last ounce of our energy and existence is now focused on accomplishing basic functions “normal” people take for granted.

Things like getting up in the morning when all we want to do is hide under the covers in bed. We lay there waiting for our own life to end so we can be with the child we just lost. Or remembering to breathe when we’ve held our breath too long. We hold it trying to fight back the avalanche of despair and flood of tears that threaten to smother us if we let them loose. Things like eating, bathing, or venturing into the outside world. None of those things seem to hold much use or meaning to us anymore.

In some unfathomable way, we continue to exist despite not wanting any part of a world in which our child no longer lives.

Many bereaved parents feel this way for months and years after their child has died. We hear pleas from family, friends, and the outside world to “move on” with our life. In other words, to get back to being the person we were and living the way we once did. But bereaved parents often have no idea how to transition from merely existing to living once more in a world without their child. And some parents simply no longer want to. And for those who don’t, I completely understand.

Years ago, I heard those horrible words, “Your daughter is dead.” On that day, I began my existence as a bereaved parent. And it took me a long time to be able to embrace the idea of living in this world that my daughter is no longer a part of.

So what exactly is the difference between existing and living?

The answer is not so simple. Every person is unique, so every person’s definition of living is unique. And that definition is subject to change over time. My personal definition of living has changed since Margareta died. The act of living for me now has three basic components.

First, I have come to accept that pain is an inevitable and inescapable part of my life. But I can lessen it by recognizing and focusing my energy on the love, joy, sweetness, and opportunities of life that surround me. That is, if I take the time and effort to look for them. Unlike the early days of my grief, I no longer believe the destructive idea that embracing the good things in my life somehow means I’m “okay” with my daughter’s death.

Second, every person on this planet has something they are inherently good at. And I have learned to embrace what I am talented at and passionate about and then using it to help others. In doing this, I become part of something larger than just myself and my existence. It provides purpose and meaning in my life. And finding purpose and meaning has been the biggest source of healing my grief over the years.

Finally, living means consistently trying to be brave enough to keep pushing beyond my comfort zone. Knowing every day may be my last, I must push the boundaries to find new ways of thinking, situations, activities, and adventures that feel nourishing and supportive.

I won’t lie. These things aren’t easy. Depending on how I’m feeling and what is going on at any given time, they can be downright hard. They take continual effort, practice, and intention. And above all, they require me to believe I deserve to be living after the death of my daughter.  

For bereaved parents, that belief that we could ever deserve a life with happiness, joy, meaning, and purpose once more is one of the hardest to come by in the shadow of our child’s death.

We must overcome the innate feeling that we failed at the most important part of our lives. We failed to protect our child and keep them from harm – no matter what the circumstances were. It is what keeps us awake at night and makes us think we don’t deserve to feel happiness ever again. It’s what keeps many bereaved parents stuck in despair and hopelessness. They resign themselves to merely existing instead of living.

I can’t recall the moment I started to truly believe I deserved to embrace life once again. But I know it took a lot of hard work processing my grief. And learning to let go of the immense guilt I felt over my daughter’s death. It took reaching out to a network of grief support organizations.

I know full well that living my life will require continual effort, practice, and intention for the rest of my days.

And that’s okay. I do it because I know I deserve to be happy. And because the family that remains by my side deserves to have me fully present in their lives. I do it in honor of my daughter. As long as I am living my life, she is my guiding light, my inspiration, and forever in the forefront of my thoughts. And that’s where I want her to remain. 

The Wound Time Won’t Heal

The Wound Time Won’t Heal

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We’ve all heard it.

“Time heals all wounds,” sounds incredibly hopeful for someone who’s drowning in grief. Except when time doesn’t heal your wound.

Later this year will mark eight years since my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died. She died exactly 29 days after her fourth birthday. That means we had 1,489 glorious days to spend with her — the only daughter in a family full of boys.

One of my grandmothers died last year at the age of 98. My other grandmother is in her 90s. Based on those genes, I can probably expect to live until close to a century old. If that is true, Margareta will have been alive for about 4% of my life.

4%. 0.04. A small fraction by most measurements. A blip in my overall life. Except that she’s anything but.

Coming up on eight years since her death, she will have been gone twice as long as she lived. The small details of her life are already being lost to time. And yet I still think of her every day, multiple times a day. This isn’t a bad thing. Every time I think of her is an opportunity to celebrate the love between us.

But lying just under the surface of my day-to-day life is the endless pain that surrounds the memories of my daughter. 

Anything can trigger it. My chest tightens. My breathing pauses. The tears begin to well up behind my eyes.

I find myself suspended in a bubble of torment while the world goes on around me — not caring that my daughter is dead and that I have to live in that reality for the rest of my life.

A friend told me a story once. She was waiting in line at the grocery store. An elderly woman in front of her — perhaps in her 80s — was staring at the cover of a magazine that featured an adorable baby boy. A smile grew on the woman’s face.

“He looks like my son,” she said to no one in particular. The clerk ringing her up paid little notice.

“He was so beautiful,” she said with pride. Then her tone changed. “He died when he was a baby.” 

The clerk looked bewildered; said nothing and continued ringing her up. 

My friend tried to comfort her by acknowledging her son and her loss. But the woman was lost in the simultaneous love and grief she had for her child who was only in her life a few short years well over half a century ago.

I can see myself in that woman. Forever juggling the overwhelming love of her precious child with the crushing pain of having lost him so long ago. I can feel her despair; the need to tell complete strangers that he existed. That he mattered.

Can time really heal all wounds? No. Not this wound. Not in this lifetime.

But really…it’s okay. It doesn’t have to relegate us to a lifetime of depression and despair.

The wound that won’t heal can transform itself into a continual reminder that this life of ours should be lived. Not just in a get-through-each-day kind of life, but a life that recognizes the gift that each day brings…because we know all too well that the next is never guaranteed.

With dedication and intention, we can turn a wound that forever remains open into fertile ground. From that fertile wound grows new meaning for our life.

The warmth and depth of our love is the brilliant sun that shines down on our fertile ground. The tears we shed is the rain that helps our garden grow. 

Our garden of grief grows resilience, compassion, and purpose.

We grow.

We grow for our children who didn’t get to.

The Ache of Losing a Child

The Ache of Losing a Child

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Last week was the (would have been) 11th birthday of my daughter. In a few weeks, it will be the 7th anniversary of her death.

That leaves four years. Four short years we had with her that were simply not enough.

To be sure, I am grateful for those four years.

I know people who were never able to conceive after years of trying. I’ve seen the heartache of those who suffered miscarriages or whose babies were stillborn. I have sat witness to the stories of those who only got to experience a few hours or days with their babies. Or those whose child never lived to see their first birthday.

I’ve also grieved next to those who had more than four years with their children before the unthinkable happened.

No matter the age or circumstance when our children died, we are all left with the same deep ache that will never go away.

Our children are a part of us. They are the embodiment of our greatest achievement and our deepest vulnerabilities. It is a bond that can never be broken. Not even by death. But they did die. And when they died, they took a part of us we can never get back. And it hurts like hell. 

The pain is unbearable and unrelenting at first. But over time the stabbing pain transforms into a duller ache. We learn to adapt to a life with that ache. With some work and determination, we can re-learn meaning, purpose, and joy. We can once again embrace the sweetness life has to offer if we know where to look.

But that ache forever remains.

When life shuts a door, another one opens. We’ve heard that saying time and again. And the death of a child is like a door forever stuck shut. We desperately try to peer through the keyhole to glimpse what once was. But that keyhole becomes more obstructed and harder to see through with the passage of time. We ache for the chance to open that door once again; knowing full well we can’t.

No matter how many new doors we open and travel through; no matter how wonderful it may be on the other side of these new doors; a part of us will always cling to that one door. We desperately try to peer through that keyhole while remembering the profound love that resided within it.

I am happy with where my life is heading. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’m grateful for the joy and love that fills me. I treasure my family.

But that ache is still there. Every moment of every day.

For the rest of my life, I’ll keep looking through that keyhole. I’ll do it to remember all of the joy and profound love she brought me in those four short years. And yet…I’ll keep opening new doors to see where life takes me. She would have wanted it that way.