Why We Will Never Get Over It

The following is an article from a page I follow on Facebook. I could have written it myself if I had had the energy.

I am SO tired of being judged on the way we are grieving our son. You don't live our life, you haven't experienced all we have as a result of his death. So DON'T you DARE judge the way we are grieving. Normal ceased to exist the moment Austin breathed his last breath, so don't push us to "find our new normal" and the "groove" we had, ceased to exist almost 3 years ago, and there's no going back. The LAST thing we are worried about is making YOU comfortable. When you've lived our life, witnessed firsthand the battles that plague our minds EVERY second of EVERY day, then you can talk to us about the way we're grieving. Until then - BACK OFF!!

Why We Will Never Get Over It

Unfortunately bereaved parents get judged often. By those who know us and by those who don’t.

We are often criticized and pathologized for grieving (for remembering our child.) People erroneously think we are stuck, depressed, and/or clinically-something, if we still cry, ache, and miss our child; if we still remember them; if we continue speaking their name and grieving for them– especially if the grieving has been going on “too long.” Too long could mean 3 months, 6 months, a year– a decade, or longer. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to grieve THAT long, right?

Wrong. We will grieve forever because we love forever. There is no end to our love for our child, therefore there is no end to our grief– not in our lifetime, anyway. We will grieve forever. We will never get over it.

The presumption is that since our child’s death happened years ago– a presumably finite event– how are we not over it by now? As if child loss is something you can get over– likening it to something far less horrific that can be conquered if you only try hard enough, think positively, or pull yourself up by the bootstraps. As if it’s a hurdle you can easily jump over, or a roadblock you can simply go around and then move on. As if sunshine, rainbows and unicorns will magically greet you once enough time has passed and you cross into “I’m-over-it” land. This may work for other things, but not child loss.

It’s time to bust a long-standing myth about child loss and grief. There is no getting over it. Child loss is not something you get over. Ever. You don’t get over watching the living, breathing piece of your heart and soul, your flesh and blood, your child– die. It’s simply not. possible. to get over the death of your child. You will grieve the death of your child until your last breath.

It is said that the decision to have a child is “to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” When your child dies your heart is obliterated, broken beyond repair. When your child dies, a huge part of you dies, too. And there is no getting that part back again. Over time you can try to put the pieces of yourself back together again, but they don’t fit the same. There are huge pieces missing, no matter what you do. No matter how long it’s been.

The pain– visible or not– is with us every breath and every step we take, every second of every day. The scars never heal. We are not defined by child loss, but we are certainly marked by it. Forever.

Normal died the day our child did. There is no guidebook for how to survive, or how to grieve. No formula. No roadmap. No start here, end there. The truth is bereaved parents will grieve the loss of their child until their last breath. It may seem confusing why bereaved parents do the things we do; how we’ve chosen to survive and navigate life post-tragedy. From outside of grief, it likely won’t make sense to an onlooker. The good news is, if you don’t understand, breathe a deep sigh of relief and remember one thing: you’re so fortunate (#blessed/lucky/_______) you don’t.

Ultimately to understand means to be bereaved. Which we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemy. We hope no one else truly understands. Ever.

We would have given our life one million times over + infinity to save our child– but, unfortunately we weren’t given that choice. And so, for the rest of our lives, we have to learn how to live with the pain. A pain that is so excruciating, so much like torture, so unimaginable, there’s not even an apt word for it in the English language.

We trip over grief just when we thought we had it contained, figured out, put away, managed. We fall into grief potholes when we least expect it.

We become adept at carrying it, stuffing it, hiding it places. It leaks from our eyes when we least expect it. We sob in the shower, the car, on the bathroom floor. We dry our tears, put our masks back on, so we can move and be and live in the world, to the best of our ability.

Grief steals the person we used to be, and we grieve that, too. The person staring back at us in the mirror becomes almost unrecognizable. We wish we could be who we used to be, too.

We are broken, but there is no fix for our heartache.

We carry it with us, always. Grief exhausts us to the bone. There is no reprieve. No minute, hour, or day off from being a bereaved parent. Once a bereaved parent, always a bereaved parent. There is no going back.

Even during happy or joyful moments, the pain and sadness is always there. A permanent undercurrent, a pulse of pain.

We learn how to carry it all: the joy, the pain, the love, the sadness. Eventually we become an expert at carrying it all.

The moment our child died is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It is the past, the present, and the future. It was not just one finite horrific moment in time that happened last whenever. It is not just the moment, the hour, the second, the millisecond our life became permanently divided into before and after.

You might say, “But she died last year!” Or 10 years ago, or five. No. No, she didn’t.

Our child dies all over again every morning we wake up.
And again every moment they are (yet again) missing.
And again every moment in between.
And again every breath we take.

Our child dies again every moment they are not here with us– for the rest of our lives.

The truth of this fact is almost impossible to express. How many deaths can one parent endure?

For the rest of our lives we will struggle to accept and understand this very fact: our child is dead. And in the incessant replay of our minds our child will keep dying all over again for the rest of our lives.

This is child loss. It is never over. It is always happening. Again and again and again.

We live and relive it. It is now, yesterday, tomorrow– forever.

Just like our love for our child is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It spans both directions. There is no end.

Please remember this next time you hear someone tell a bereaved parent they are dwelling, stuck, depressed, not moving on; that they should just hurry up and get over it– or any other common judgment or misconception. Our pain, our love, and our child cannot be watered down to such phrases, such shallow summations. It does not even begin to capture or express the reality of our day-to-day lives, nor the eternal ache and love in our hearts.

To understand child loss, you have to think about every second, minute, hour, day, month and year a bereaved parent has to live without their precious child– a lifetime— not just the finite moment in time their child died. Every missed milestone, every heart beat, every breath without them, hurts. It hurts now, now and now. It will still be painful 10 and 20 years from now. It will remain an ever-present ache in our heart, soul, mind and body always– until our very last breath.

Child loss is never over. It is a loss that spans a bereaved parent’s entire life.

This is why we will never, ever, get over it. Because “it” is our precious, irreplaceable child. There is no getting over it. There is only love (and pain) to be bravely and courageously carried– for a lifetime.

--Becky

Grief is a Thief

Grief is a thief, stealing so much from the grieving and those close to them. The wake is messy with shrapnel flying and everyone in your life being hit by it to a degree. If you are close to the eye of the storm coming out unharmed is a miracle. Doing so probably means you either weren’t as close as you thought or you are one of the few that were able to swim through the mud being a fierce protector of the grieving Mom’s heart.

Grief, after your baby dies, isn’t only about grieving the baby you lost but also grieving the life you once lived. You grieve relationships you had with friends and family that once felt loving and easy and no longer are. You grieve all you had envisioned for your future that no longer can be. The ripple effect is so great that one day you wake up and reflect on the life you once lived and it feels like it belongs to someone else, with little resemblance to the life you now live.

People may give you grace and understand the profound sadness that comes when your baby dies. What is often misunderstood is the pain that is caused by the ripple effect of grief and all that was left in its wake. We feel the pain to our core when we see who ran and hid, who judged you, who justified their own behaviour, who talked to others about you and who was clearly lacking love.

Once the fog clears and you see the landscape you are now living in, it is impossible to un-see it. You see your heart was truly only safe with only a few people and feel intense pain from being abandoned or let down by those you thought were put in your world to support you and help protect your heart.

Relationships are easy when living is easy. The real litmus test of a relationship is when you have to ride the waves together. When the person you trust to have your back catches you without hesitation as you are falling, when your sadness isn’t frightening, or inconvenient, and they are more than willing to meet you just exactly where you are.

Relationships over time evolve, that is natural. When a life event like this happens you as a person is forever changed and with that, the relationship you once had is also forever changed. People either choose to love you through it and allow the quick evolution to flow and become more connected or choose you no longer fit into each other’s lives.

Grief is a thief. It steals so much from everyone involved. You are left with the gift of seeing who is still standing beside you and gently holding your heart. Grief steals so much but also gives the gift of deepened, stronger and more meaningful relationships once the aftermath is cleaned up. It is those relationships you know will last a lifetime because they stand on the foundation of unconditional love.

I am so sorry if you are a Mom who not only lost their baby but also had grief steal so much more from you. You didn’t deserve it.

Thank you to all who swim through the mud, those who stand in the fire, the ones who take the responsibility to safely hold the heart when it is broken, and those who can love stronger than the shrapnel of grief. You are the grieving Mom’s greatest gift.

Still Standing Magazine

What Grieving People Wish You Knew

Grief is one of the most feared emotions along the spectrum of being human. It is often ostracized instead of welcomed as an inevitable, human experience.

One of the isolating and difficult things about grief can be feeling like other people don’t get us or our multilayered feelings around our loss, especially as time goes on.

I recently posed this question on social media:

What do you wish the world understood about your grief?

I received the following responses from humans who have lost young children, adult children, husbands, wives, mothers, or fathers to suicide, cancer, accidents and more.

That it’s always there, and pretty close to the surface. And it’s weird because sometimes I want to talk about it and sometimes I
don’t. I don’t expect anyone to know which way I’m feeling on any given day, but I want to be okay with the awkwardness and I want
others to be okay with it too.

That it’s harder and longer than I could have ever expected.

I wish that people, especially family members, knew that grief is not a switch that you can just turn off because it’s time to
move on. Yes, we try to move on because our loved one is resting in peace and we have the right to enjoy the rest of our life as
much as we can. But, something triggers a memory and the grief is back. So, we need to work through it again. It’s easier said than
done unfortunately.

You miss the love that filled up that space.

That it becomes your shadow. Forever present even when not visible to all eyes. Most of all to acknowledge that it’s okay to talk
about it. And, no, you won’t remind me of it if you bring it up. My grief is who I am now. The new me. I wish that everyone was
more comfortable with my grief. It reinforces the fact that I lost my beautiful daughter and that will never change.

It has changed the whole dynamics of our family and I am no longer the person I used to be. I’m not quite sure who I am any more.

That it feels like an amputation and that it has no timetable.

That there is no right or wrong way to grieve. That everyone’s timeline is different. That it will reopen many times throughout
your life and you have to work through it again when it is retriggered, but this does not mean you are stuck or not getting on with
your life.

How heavy empty is.

That it’s changed me in every way.

I wish the world knew that my grief has touched every emotion from sadness, anger, guilt and unbearable heartache. In the early
months I felt off balance, out of control and lost. With time I have forgiven myself and my father for his death by suicide. There
are still days it all feels like a nightmare that I just can’t wake up from. The sorrow comes in waves, then subsides into
acceptance. Sometimes worry and anxiety take over and I wonder how I can possibly survive the loss of another loved one.

How bad it hurts.

That it doesn’t go away. I always feel it. I am changed because of it. But I don’t think others feel comfortable knowing that I
still hurt and that I always will. That I want to talk about how much I miss my son, but I suck it up because I don’t think others
feel comfortable with my grief. That it doesn’t mean I’m crazy or need “help.”

That every new loss sets in motion a renewed loss of everyone else. Compounded with each loss.

That it hurts like no other pain you can possibly describe and yet no other person will experience this. Because even though they
will experience grief, their pain will be different. All grief is unique and individual like snowflakes. No two are the same. I
wish it was talked about more. I wish it to be acceptable, that’s it’s okay to not be okay. I wish for all grievers to be heard and
not tried to be fixed.

That we don’t choose grief. The mind cannot turn off and on what the heart and soul feel just because “they” want the old you
back.

That it softens but it’s something I will carry with me the rest of my life.

That they are the same as they always were and I am not. My life did not go on after my loss as theirs did. And my life will
stay in this realm unknown to them forever. I would like them to know that they will never truly feel profound loss like this until
it happens to them.

That I will never stop grieving my losses.

I wish people knew that the grief parents feel about their child with special needs is something they have to carry and honor and
process their whole lives.

That even a year or more later there are days where it hurts just as bad as it did the moment I found out; that even when the number of years reaches fifty, there will still be those crippling days.

When we humans trust our capacity to hold other humans, to let unfold and be told our deepest layers of humanity, rich with heartache and love, something powerful happens. In the pause before we reach for a way to fix someone, that moment where we choose to sit with what is uncomfortable and unfixable, we find a sweet spot of being human, where all that is required is showing up to listen, see, hold, and honor another person’s truth or pain.

Still Standing Magazine

Holiday Survival for Grieving Hearts

So many are feeling the extra ache of missing as we walk through the holiday season. Thanksgiving, Christmas, another New Year. A year without those we love. Many are looking for a survival guide. How? How do we get through this Christmas without our baby/child…this first Christmas…or the twenty-first? Much gets easier with the passing of time and the healing of wounds. One thing doesn’t leave…it’s the missing. And, it washes over us anew with each season.

What does happen, is that the missing becomes familiar, like a part of your family, your memories, your celebrations, your heart. The missing is almost part of you in time, welcomed even, because it means someone was here…someone precious and valuable and worth the remembering.

So…here are some “tips” but by no means are they an answer. There are no quick fixes to ease the longing brought about by the holiday season. Nothing I can say to make all the wrongs right. This isn’t about trying. It’s simply about knowing that we aren’t walking alone. Knowing, there’s hope and grace for this journey along the way. And, beautiful gifts…even in the missing.

I miss my daughters, Faith and Grace and my son, Thomas. And, I miss my mother. Life and especially Christmas will never be the same without her…without them. But, I’m still grateful for the love in my heart, the dreams I still dream, the ornaments on my tree, and the memories I hold dear. Most of all the truth that because Jesus came, I will see them again.

1. Give yourself grace. Take care of you. If you can’t “do” Christmas like you’ve always done or do it at all, just do what you need to. Be you. Protect your fragile heart.

2. Do something…or many things to honor the memory of your baby/child…to include your child in the celebration. Ornaments on the tree, donating to a favorite charity, buying presents through Operation Christmas Child or Angel Tree, ask others to join you in doing random acts of kindness. Decorate the cemetery or a special place in your home…or don’t. And, don’t feel guilty if none of those suggestions happen or fit your plan for where your heart is.

3. Survival mode is ok.

4. Laughing and joy is ok, too. If you do want routine and tradition and find comfort in it, there is nothing wrong with still celebrating. Don’t allow guilt to steal joy. And, cry when you need to.

5. Take a hot bath, read a good book, go slowly. Don’t plan too much or put too much pressure on yourself. Make sure you have some quiet time to refuel. Grief is hard work, And, it’s happening even when we don’t realize it, taking much of your energy. Eat healthy, exercise, and rest…plenty. (Some good reading can be found in Isaiah 61…if in the hurt, you need to be re-introduced to the One who came to save you. This is the Jesus I know.)

6. Some people take a little trip, escape for a bit together, and change it up. That’s helpful for some.

7. If you do a tree or don’t, that’s ok. Whatever you need to do to survive is just fine. There are no rules and should be no judgments.

8. If you choose to celebrate with extended family and friends, they may follow your lead. If you are comfortable talking about your baby, they may feel at ease, too. Often they don’t mention your child or say the wrong thing, because they are uncomfortable or unsure. That isn’t always the case. Plenty of people said the “wrong” thing or nothing at all to me. For many years. Be prepared for that.

9. No one is or should be allowed to judge your “performance” in grief. Don’t allow that to rule your thinking. They aren’t walking this. You are.

10. Spend some time with your safe people…people you can talk about the missing, your baby, or nothing at all. Spend time with those you love the most…just being. Time with your husband/partner. Time with your other children, if you have other children. Time with anyone else close to you, and understanding of your grief.

One other thing…this isn’t a hard and fast rule. There are no rules in grief. No handbook. No answers that fit all situations or hurts. So. Much. Grace. Is. Needed. But, it is good to remember that often…the anticipation of a day is much worse than the actual day. Not always, but often.

A Letter to my Grieving Self

The following is a blog post from a fellow bereaved mom who we met at the Respite Retreat we went to on the 1 year anniversary of Austin's death. She and her husband are almost 2 years into their journey and they have had a loss through miscarriage as well. She speaks our hearts so beautifully. It's almost as if she tapped into our mins when she wrote this.

The past few months have brought with them reminders, heartache, news from many different friends on many different occasions and with several different circumstances, all dealing with children and heartbreak, that they or their friends are experiencing loss. Fresh loss for some, anticipated loss for others, longing for life for even more. Today, as my heart is broken anew for the aches of this world, I was reminded of the beauty of showing myself grace. And so here I am, writing a letter to the hurting mamas, the longing-to-be-mamas, and to myself, the mama whose grief is still so fresh and yet whose arms are about to be full.

A letter to the loss mama, the longing to be pregnant mama, to the pregnant after she’s lost mama, and all shades of the in-between… a letter to me:

I see you.

I see you back there, heart raw and vulnerable. Waking up in the morning and putting your feet over the side of the bed in hopes. Maybe one day.

Yet again, opening your eyes to your reality. Your reality that you wish was simply a dream. Your heart and arms longing for something – for someone – not there to fill them.

You get up and you remember that the rest of the world is continuing on. Just stop for once, you think, as you try to catch your breath, catch up to what all is happening, catch up to the place where you feel like you can continue on as you were.

Except – there isn’t an as you were.

There’s only now. This normal. This new normal.

And you almost hate it.

You almost hate it while you also learn to embrace it. Because that’s all you can do. Because there’s a part of you that just wants to move on and wants to be better and yet there’s the rest of you that is screaming inside that you just can’t. That you’d rather go back. That you want them here, alive, with you. Not missing. Not lost. Not just a memory.

I see you when you’re walking through the grocery store and you run into someone you haven’t seen in a long time. An innocent question. A comment. An assumption made and all you want to do is hide. Or cry. Or share a little too much. Because you just want them to see you for who you are – for all of you who are in that moment – and not to see through you. Because maybe then, you won’t feel alone.

Or it just won’t sting as much.

You shut your car door and the tears start to flow. You get home and you’re exhausted. But it was just a simple grocery store trip, you try to reason with yourself. Your body knows what your heart is trying to sort out. And your body is telling you – it’s exhausting to try to do all of this.

This grief is painful.

And even if no one else in this world sees you in it… it doesn’t take it away.

I see you when you are frustrated with your husband. Except you’re not really frustrated with him. He’s been there. He cares. He’s hurting too, and he’s entering in with you as he’s able, and he’s serving you in the best way possible. It’s just that you’re frustrated with the circumstance. You’re hurting for each other while you’re hurting yourselves and it’s so overwhelming.

It shouldn’t be this hard you think.

And you’re right – it shouldn’t. And you are right to be frustrated with the fact that this world is fallen and broken and that this part of the brokenness is also a part of your life.

You deserve it no more or no less than anyone else. And you know that. There’s no wishing it was them instead if you. There’s just that wishing that this wasn’t ever supposed to be like this in the first place. And it wasn’t.

But that’s the beautiful part, too.

And as hard as it is to swallow, there will be moments – glimpses – as time goes by where you will see this being used for your good. That’s not necessarily the reason any of this is happening, but it surely is a byproduct.

Because our God – He’s not a god of waste.

Our God is the God who deems it to be holy and true that he does work all things together for the good of those who walk uprightly.

Our God is the God who sees it fit to declare that one day there will be no more sorrow and no more tears and no more pain and death shall be no more.

Our God is the God who says that He is with us and we will be His people and He will be our God.

Our God is near.

He is kind.

He hears us.

He cares.

Our God is the God who is willing to weep with us while we weep all the while knowing that He is making all things new.

And so.

You lift up your face again to face another day. You do the next thing just to continue to press on. You put on a brave smile and you bravely let tears fall and you step out into the world and you hide back in your room and you remember.

You hold onto memories. You keep those dreams.

You share with those you trust and you speak without holding back. You cautiously let your heart whisper small prayers that really are big, because how can you continue to ask and trust and believe when you’re continually brought to heartache?

And you slowly begin to see hope rise again.

Your heart will swell again, and your heart will continue to love, and that one you are missing does still have a place.

Seen.

All of it and all of you.

Seen and loved.

In the darkness of what surrounds you, remember this: there is One who cares. Draws near. Faithfully doesn’t abandon. And you have the freedom to scream and cry and pound your fists at the injustices of the reality of this place. He takes it. And He weeps with you.

In this place, in this season of expected-to-be-always-joyful, I write this letter to you, to me. To let you know that yes, there is joy and hope to be found, but there’s also space to just be. He welcomes you here. And He loves you.

And one day. One day. That may simply be enough.

From a mama in the trenches of confusion and pain looking outward and upward and onward to that flickering light of hope – I’m with you. I am you. You are loved.

8 Simple Reasons the Holidays are hard for the Bereaved

The truth is – the holidays can hurt after we’ve been hit with grief. But why? If we already miss our loved ones more than we ever thought we could endure on any given day – how can the thought of a holiday make it harder?
Here are 10 simple reasons holidays hurt the bereaved:

1) Holidays are all about togetherness.

From commercials and ads to Hallmark specials on TV, to the time away from work and school, it’s impossible to escape the ingrained belief that the holidays are meant to be spent together with your loved ones.

It is this focus on togetherness that makes your reality feel more real. You will never get to be all together on this earth again. Even as you focus on everyone who is here — your living children, partner, parents or siblings — it never replaces the emptiness you feel for the one who is not.

While the non-bereaved are counting the seats at the table, you know one chair will always be missing.
When others are joyfully sending out holiday cards with photos of their complete family, you are left wondering how to include your loved one in your family photo — and if you should sign their name on the card.
While those you know fill their houses and relish in the happy chaos, you find that no matter how full one’s house is, it will always feel a little too empty.

Togetherness will never quite be the same again. And nothing makes that more obvious than a holiday dedicated to the idea of it.

2) There is an expectation that you will be merry.

Have you ever noticed that every greeting during a holiday begins with “happy” or “merry”?
In our everyday lives, we’re allowed to have days when we are grumpy, irritable or just plain hurting. We can go out in public and most strangers will leave us well enough alone. But during the holidays, strangers everywhere wish you to be merry or happy. And of course, the courteous thing to do is to smile and wish them the same.

But what about when you don’t FEEL merry? Grief, the dictator that it is, does not operate on a predictable schedule. While there may be moments you feel merry and bright, grief may cause your heart to ping between all the other emotions of loss like a pinball machine. Those of us who are grieving know this is normal. It’s just that when everyone else expects us to feel happy, we can feel like we are letting others down just by experiencing the normal emotions of grief.

3) It’s just so busy.

Grieving takes up a ridiculous amount of brain space. Making simple decisions can feel like Herculean tasks because your brain doesn’t keep tracking back to your loss. And yet the holidays require us to make so many extra decisions. Who will we be buying presents for, and what will we get them? What meals or dishes will we bring and what parties will we bring them to? What will we do for family pictures? How will we honor our loved one this holiday?

And then, you actually have to DO these things.

Furthermore, your schedule may not align with your heart at any given moment. Perhaps on a good day, you said yes to attending a party. And when that day comes – you are overcome with sadness, or despondency, or numbness. You can’t wrangle joy into your heart – so you are left either attending and pretending, attending and wishing you hadn’t or bailing altogether.

Unless you make an intentional effort to slow down, all of your time and energy can easily go toward keeping up with the holidays, leaving very little left to grieve your loss in the quiet of your heart and home. And as we know, that time to grieve is necessary for our survival.

4) People are everywhere.

And I’m not just talking about strangers. I’m talking about your husband’s boss’s wife at a company party, or your third-cousin twice removed at your family gathering. (I may have made that up. I’m not sure there is such a thing). At any rate, there are all these people who are close ENOUGH to you that you need to make small talk. And they are people who may know just enough to make it awkward to ignore the fact that you are grieving, but not close enough to make that conversation comfortable. Is there anything more exhausting than making small talk when the loss in your life feels anything but small?

Plus, being out and about seeing so many families who appear to be a happy and cheerful and WHOLE triggers grief over your family who may not be happy or cheerful, and is definitely not whole. I’m not trying to sound like Scrooge here. But just having so many people, from parties to crowds, constantly surrounding you is enough to turn the most hardcore extrovert into a hermit when they’re grieving.

5) Holidays are for making memories.

Elf on the Shelf. Advent calendars. Cutting down and decorating the Christmas tree. Baking Christmas cookies. Opening presents. Taking photos — photos — endless photos. Kids wearing matching jammies and staying up late Christmas Eve. Wrapping presents. Opening presents. Hanging stockings, lights or wreaths. On, and on it goes. There are a million traditions, and each one is aimed at making and preserving memories.

But when your loved one is gone, that first holiday is a punch-in-the-gut reminder: There are no more memories you can make wtih them. All you have already created is all you will get, and that will need to last you the rest of your lifetime. For those who lost a child in pregnancy or in childhood, this can be especially difficult as there are few (if any) memories already made that you can draw from during the difficult holiday season. If you can’t make memories during the holidays with your loved one, and if you have no shared memories with them to draw from, what is a person to do during a season bent on celebrating memories?

6) There are so many triggers.

Everywhere. While Christmas cards and family photos are beautiful and a such a nice token to receive, they also can trigger a lot of sadness. (Or anger, numbness or despondency. Or a million other emotions that come with grief.) The radio plays the same songs over and over, songs you may have memories attached to with your loved ones. Turning on the TV, opening Facebook, walking through the mall,  getting your mail . . . any of these normal activities are ripe with grief triggers. This makes the holiday season is a particularly rough minefield to navigate.

7) You’re expected to count your blessings.

This is similar to the expectation to be merry, but it goes deeper. Those who are really close to you should understand why you can’t be jolly when your heart is hurting. However, they may unwittingly place an expectation on you to exude gratitude for what you do have.

People confuse grief with ingratitude. They forget that it is entirely possible to be extremely thankful for everyone you still have in your life, and all the “blessings” you do have — while at the same time, mourning the loss of your loved one. In order to put their own hearts at peace, some may actually tell you to “count your blessings.” As though you owe them anything. Truth is — you don’t. And you know what? I think those who have lost actually have a significantly higher appreciation for all that has remained in their lives.

If you want to count your blessings, by all means, do so. Just don’t feel you need to do this to make someone else happier with your grief.

8) So many things are missing.
 
Things you can’t help but notice. There’s a Christmas tree brimming with presents, but you see the ones that are missing. You hang stockings, and your hands reach for the one that’s not there.  Your yearly holiday letter is missing updates from a member of your family. The photos you take never feel complete. There is an empty chair at the family feast.
There is something — someone — always missing. And the holidays magnify that loss in a unique way so that the gap between what is normal for everyone else and what is your new normal grows. It creates a dissonance, a discord, a distress.

Take My Grief

Do you want my grief?

Please, for a moment, take it please.

Hold it next to your heart,
feel it burn and tear you apart.

Please, I beg of you, ease my mind.

Give me sleep for just one night.

Get the flashbacks, the heart-stopping pangs.

The helplessness from losing my way.

Can you feel my grief?

Hold it close, it will bring you to your knees.

Your soul will yell, it will scream.

Can you hear it bellow while it takes your peace?

Your body aches, your mind stands still.

You live in the past, where things were real.

Help me, friend, I ask of you.

Take this grief for a day or two.

Just long enough so I can clear my head.

So I can feel like my child's not gone.....

Charla Norman