A Love Letter to the Grievers

For the days when it feels impossible to keep going

To anyone who has lost someone they love dearly,

I feel the pain you’ve felt. I understand the overwhelming exhaustion of facing another wave of grief. And I know how desperate the urge to escape can be. I’m living it, right along with you.

I’m sitting here at a Starbucks on a Sunday morning trying to write but too wracked with grief to string two words together.

I’m so uncomfortable in my own skin that I wish I could tear it off somehow. Or escape in some way that won’t destroy my life.

I’m fantasizing about driving an hour to my wife’s grave and screaming at her for killing herself. I don’t feel proud of that, but it’s the truth.

Grief brings up rage, and mine tells me that if she hadn’t died, our daughter would still be alive. I know it’s not nearly that simple.

Fifteen years after my wife died and two and a half years after my daughter died, and I’m so tired of it all. I’m tired of missing them. I’m tired of looking at my daughter’s urn.

I’m tired of knowing that the happy days will inevitably, and unpredictably, be followed by another wave of pain. I’m tired of there always being another mountain to climb.

I’m tired of talking about grief. I’m tired of having to face it.

But I will today, and always. Because I know this too, will pass. And when it does, I’ll grow as a human and I’ll learn something new. I’ll take another step in my healing process. And I’ll become a little more resilient for when I have to face it next.

I’m telling you this because if you’re there right now, I want you to know you’re not alone.

There are few lonelier places than the depths of grief. The darkness can feel as absolute as the reality that your loved one is never coming back. It seems like no one could possibly understand what you’re going through. You wonder if they even want to. It’s so easy to be swallowed by anger and resentment.

Even though you know there is no escape, everything in your mind and body is telling you to run. All you need is a moment’s relief. Just a moment. You’ll renegotiate your pact with the devil later, when you’ve had some time to breathe. In your soul you know the contract is written in blood but how heavy a cross can a person be expected to bear? Everyone has their limits and you’re beyond yours.

When you do manage to pick up your head and look to the horizon, the road ahead is littered with more of the same. More missing them. More life without them. More regret, guilt and shame. More pointlessly wishing things were different.

The pain is so intense because you love them so damn much. Not loved them in the past tense but love them in the present, even as your time on this earth with them inexorably recedes into the past. Trying to make sense of it is trying to reconcile the irreconcilable.

The human experience presents us with countless opportunities to be subject to things out of our control. And we can drive ourselves mad trying to control them. You couldn’t control how your loved one died. You couldn’t control the choices they made. You can’t control what you didn’t know at the time. You can’t control the days that blindside you. And the more you try to get your arms around it all, the tighter it chokes you.

Healing demands we remember what’s in our control. We have the power to choose how we look at things. We have the power to decide what we want. And we have the power to choose what we do. No one can take that away from you. The only way to lose it to willingly give it away. When all you can see is pain, it’s so easy to do.

You can choose what to do when the pain is tearing your heart out. You can choose to work towards forgiving yourself and forgiving them. You can choose to face it rather than run. You can choose to label yourself as healing rather than broken. You can choose to reach for one small connection instead of suffering in silence. You can choose to turn over every stone on the path to healing. You can choose to find ways to stay connected to them in ways that don’t revolve around your pain. You can choose to believe that the best way to honour their memory is to heal yourself and live once again.

You won’t always make the “right” choices. Grief is too complex, too intense and lasts too long for that. When it knocks you down you can choose to get back up. You can choose to be compassionate with yourself when you lose your temper, escape or break your promises to yourself. When you catch yourself spiralling, shaming, or slipping back into old habits, you can choose not to double down on the punishment.

You’re not failing. You’re learning to carry something that can’t be fixed. You’re learning to live in a world that’s different and scarier than the one you imagined. You’re trying to rebuild your life and honour the person you’ve lost. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.

And you can do it. Please remember that even when you feel the most powerless, you’re powerful. You’ll see your loved one again one day. Remember that. Imagine your beautiful reunion and them telling you how proud they are. For how hard you worked, for how you healed and for how you did your best to keep living. For yourself, for them, and for the people left behind.

One last thing, friend. You’re not alone. There are countless people in this world who understand you, want to hear you and want to help you. I’m but one.

Stay in it. You’re worth it. And so are they. ♥️

Love,

Jason

P.S. I feel better after writing this. Thank you for being here with me.