Reflections on Grief

Although I grieved for a long time, over a year, it was accepted as a normal part of life. I was never asked, “Aren’t you finished grieving yet?” Rather, they would say, “have you grieved enough? Have you cried enough?” -Sobonfu Somé

This year marks 25 years since my father died. My father got sick when I was a senior in high school and died the year after I graduated college. It was the crucible my adulthood was forged in.

Grief became something of a curiosity (special interest) for me. From that moment  on, the only certainty of life I knew was that some time, some way, I would feel this complicated, complex, compounded set of emotions again and again.

For 30 years I have been actively dancing with grief. Mystified and humbled by it, I go to bed every night acutely aware of its possibility, and wake up every day with it as my companion. Because what I know of grief is that while it may shift and lessen in intensity, it is there just below the surface, and one little scratch brings it back.

The other day I got a message from a client asking me to remind them how to move through heavy grief. I am always humbled, honored, and deeply compassionate with a request for healing grief. It is probably one of the most complicated, complex, bewildering emotions that humans face.

Grief is a visceral, physical, heart- and head-hurting experience. When we are in it, most of us wonder how to get out of it. We want it to end. We put a time frame on it and think that once it is over, we can go back to living as we once did. But as you know, there really is no going back.

Grief is a tender time to lean into what soothes, while making space for the painful and uncomfortable.

So how do I move through heavy grief?

I give it time to be. I give it much more time than I “think” it should need (and what our society deems acceptable).

I give grief space. Space to be present. Space to talk about it, to cry, to yell, to sleep, to comfort eat, or to not eat at all.

I give myself permission for anything that brings some comfort and feels like what my body wants to do - or not do. I honor my body’s wishes.

What I don’t do is ignore it.

On grief anniversaries, I plan for them - I take the day off and let my loved ones know I may be "in a mood." I give myself space and time to tend to my emotions. I lean into memories (I can remember everything about the day before and the days after my dad died, and I let myself remember them).

And when the grief anniversary is tied to a person, I celebrate them - my dad loved shopping and eating ice cream, so that is what I do on his day.

There is no quick way to get out of grief. And getting out of it isn’t really an option. It becomes a dance partner who at first makes you feel awkward and raw. Slowly it morphs into a partner who one moment is filled with the grace of life, and the next is stepping on your toes and dropping you to the ground. It’s the most human dance of all.

I wish that grief would never visit any of us. But as the saying goes, “grief is the price we pay for love,” and my greatest wish is that we each know love. So my prayer is that when we find ourselves in grief, we may feel the gentle holding of the earth and be companioned by those who carry the medicine of time and space.

Sincerely, 

Valerie ​