Clinging Tightly to My Love and Memories

This morning, I woke up crying. I do every December 8th. Usually, it’s after a vivid dream of getting somewhere a moment too late or the inability to grasp something just out of reach. Last night I had a new version of a recent dream that Baby Girl was falling and her friend caught her. In last night’s dream, I was supposed to catch her and couldn’t get to her (fortunately for dream Baby Girl, her friend caught her again!) You don’t have to be a Freudian to interpret these dreams, but while my dreams may argue, I actually find so much peace and love in my sadness.  

To be clear, I wish I hadn’t had to find the beauty in my grief. I miss the version of myself that I once was. That « before » me felt lighter, freer, expectant. Decisions and simple tasks didn’t feel hard or disproportionately weighty. I was naïve in so many ways, with boundless hope and unfettered joy. It didn’t occur to me to not  put things off until tomorrow, because time was predictable and plentiful. Not that there weren’t hard times, disappointments and losses, only that I possessed the optimistic confidence that good always wins in the end. The shift isn’t one I think about often, but I do recognize it’s presence. It seems like boundaries and limits just appeared where once there were none—or maybe I finally saw the perimeters that were always there. 

While these boundaries are limiting, I think there are some really amazing things that come from them. Often people who experience great loss live life with an eye on the fleetingness of it-they find an urgency to love more, celebrate bigger, try harder, show more compassion, forgive quicker, and linger a little longer. They also are more likely to limit time spent with people who drain them, are more selective with who they let into their circle, and deny access to those who chip away at their hard-faught joy. 

So today, as I remember and cling tightly to all my love, I rest in the hope that we all can learn to live our lives a bit more urgently—because we simply do not know what time remains.

Love Will Find A Way

It's the time of year when my grief bubbles to the surface. As always, I am caught off guard by just how viscerally it strikes. I feel it in my heart and body before I'm cognizant of the emptiness in my arms and the longing in my soul. Some years are harder than others, but this year has been different, not harder necessarily, but deeper, longer and more intentional. 

I’m walking alongside my dear friend as she grieves the loss of her incredible son. It is such an honor when someone trusts you with their grief, allowing you to hold their person in your heart while you hold them in your arms. It is intimate and messy and beautiful and hard and big, overflowing with every emotion.

One of the most beautiful parts of sharing her journey is revisiting and honoring my own early grief. Experiencing loss from this perspective has helped me remember and revisit things from the first year after Hart died. I was so numb, terrified, heartbroken and desperately trying to keep from succumbing to the herculean strength of my grief, that much of the year remains just out of reach, blurry shadows of memories. But, although many details are fuzzy, the feeling of being cloaked in so much love-unimaginable, active love, grace, support and innumerable acts of kindness and thoughtful gestures-is etched in my soul. 

I have loved thinking about the incredible people who showed up and climbed into the trenches with me, holding my hand, holding my heart, and holding me up. These loves let me ugly cry, uncontrollably laugh and then cry again. They allowed me sleep, or try, and stayed up with me when I couldn’t even close my eyes, they listened when I needed to talk and sat with me in silence when I couldn't-all in love and without judgement or (obvious) discomfort, these amazing friends walked with me as I found my way through another day. And there simply aren't words to define this kind of love.

How brave and loving it is to stand beside someone who has experienced what is arguably every parent's greatest fear. People are seldom taught how to talk about such an unimaginable loss, let alone, how to support someone who has experienced it. It is scary, confusing and difficult to navigate, and trying to anticipate what someone needs is an exercise in futility, but the truth is, it feels that way for the person grieving too, and the best, most love-rooted thing you can do is show up and keep showing up as they travel this mapless journey. 

Grief is tricky. It's full and empty. It's timed and timeless. It's joy and pain. It's fear and bravery. It's awesome and awful. It's fluid and unyielding. It shreds your heart to pieces and causes it to grow ten-fold. It's everything and nothing. 

Grief is an ever-moving target and it is hard and raw and lonely-so, so lonely and every bit as terrible as you can imagine-more, actually. I've discovered you never miss your child less and that you can cry just as hard 19 years after they die as you did 19 days after. But sometimes, just knowing someone is there beside you is the only thing that gets you through until you find your footing again. 

Changing Seasons of Grief

This time of year is always hard for me. It’s the season of a complicated dance between beautiful grief and difficult memories. The past couple of weeks in Virginia have felt like a typical autumn in Indiana and it has stirred visceral memories and acute longing. Some years are harder than others, but I can't remember a year that felt so like the year Hart was born and died. It feels strange and familiar-a sort of déjà vu, making the discombobulation of grief time even more disorienting. 

I am so grateful for the privilege of loving and missing my sweet Hart, but longing for something that will never be, that, suddenly, weirdly, feels so near I swear I see a shadow, is tough. 

My 2023 New Year's resolution was to go out more often, spend more time with my friends and make those relationships a priority. Staying cozy at home, in my pjs, is my default, so I had to be resolute in my goals. And I am so much better for it. 

As I enter my grief season I know I will struggle to against my inclination to isolate and get lost in my grief. I know my tendency to decline invitations, to go inward, and to walk alone with this beautiful ache is strong, but I know my people's ability to reach in and pull me out when I start to withdraw is stronger.

This year has taught me that, while the pain doesn’t lessen when others travel with me, the incredible souls I am blessed to call friends, hold me when the weight of things is too much to bear and that makes the journey a little easier, enabling me to find the beauty along the way. And for that unbelievable, incalculable gift-there are simply no words big enough to express my gratitude and love.

Shaped by Grief

Three weeks ago today, a glorious and gorgeous light was taken from this world entirely too soon. This young man was really just starting his life and those of us who loved him like our own, were shocked and devasted by his sudden and unexpected death. It was an honor to watch him grow from a little boy through his tweens and teens and finally into a young man starting to make his mark on the world. As a part of our circle, he had more "mamas" than he knew what to do with, but there were a few of us who were fortunate to spend more time with him and felt even more of a maternal draw towards him. After news of his death, a group of us "mamas" came together as we processed and grieved and cried and raged and tried to wrap our heads around this enormous and shocking void. Unbelievably, five days (five days!) later, one of these dear "mamas" also lost her son. When I say unbelievably, I mean that in the very fullness of that word. My dear friend lost her beautiful son, Luke, suddenly and unexpectedly. Luke was such an amazing young man, also just starting out into adulthood. He loved so fully and completely. His light so bright others could find their way out of the darkness. And it is utterly unbelievable. When I heard about Luke, I rushed to my friend's home and wrapped her in my arms, trying to take away the tragic reality. She asked me if it ever gets better, and I said, "I'm not going to lie to you, it doesn't get better, but you will find a way." In my experience, you never miss your child less, but you somehow find a way to live with a hole in your soul. For these past three weeks many of us have been walking around in a fog. We have surrounded my friend, Luke's sister, his beloved partner, and their family and friends with love, support and service. We have held their hands and held them up. Encouraged them to eat, sleep, and stay hydrated. Tended to as many of their day to day needs as possible. We have done what you do wnen someone you love is in unimaginable pain, we loved them with all we have to offer. And it is hard. It is so, so hard to watch someone ache to their very core. After Hart died, I remember people telling me they felt honored to be by our side as we grieved. Now I know what they meant. It is such an honor, an intimite, raw, personal walk of love. I would be lying if I said this hasn't triggered some really big feelings and unearthed some memories that had been deeply buried. I'm trying hard not to project or insert myself into her grief, but have offered my friend some of my experiences, my mistakes, things I feel I got right (or right for me, anyway), "permission' to feel any and all ways, to change her mind, to not change her mind, to make decisions, to not have to make decisions. I told her that I know there are things that bring comfort to some and deepen despear for others. So much of grief navigation is trial and error and it is constantly changing. What worked yesterday may not work today. Everyone who has walked this walk knows that grief is an individual, solitary, neverending act. It clings to every part of your life, sometimes as a hardly noticible shadow, sometimes as a giant obstacle blocking your path. There are some similarities, "universal truths," of course, but every experience is unique, nonlinear and life-long. The thing is you want people to understand, you want them to say the words that will ease the pain, to offer grace and healing. You want them to know how losing a child impacts every aspect of your life, every decision, every action. You want them to know you are absolutly doing the best you can, even when it looks like a complete mess. You want everyone to understand the weight of life, because it is so heavy and oh so brief-so, so brief. But really, you don't want anyone to understand or experience the unfathomable anguish of losing a part of your soul and you know there is no other way to understand. It's interesting how grief creeps in without invitation, without regard for time or space and before, even, thought can form. In the past few days I've wiped my cheek countless times to find tears I didn't even know I had shed. I've been surprised how fresh and raw grief can feel-even 18 years later. In an alternate reality, Hart should be graduating high school this spring, but instead I feel like it was yesterday that we were saying goodbye. I'm not sure how much of this fresh grief is because I keep thinking of what could be-what should be, and how much has been stirred by the heartbreaking loss of these two amazing young men. It doesn't really matter, it is part of my journey, one that I cannot avoid or protect myself from, but honestly I wouldn't want to, because the joy is always worth the pain.