Creating a Space for Grief in My Life

We live in a culture that largely denies death.

Many think of it as something that happens to someone else but not to me or anyone I love. Even in our sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties, we still think we have lots of time.

Many years ago, a client whose wife died at the age of 84 asked me, with great sincerity and disbelief, “How did this happen…she took such good care of herself and was always so healthy!” The client had earlier shared with me that he and his wife had been part of a group of four close couples for more than 40 years. I asked if any of them had lost their mate, and he said one man lost his wife a few years earlier. I asked my client if he and his wife ever talked about the fact this would happen to them one day, and with great indignation he said, “Absolutely not! Why would anyone want to talk about anything so negative?”

I’m guessing some of you share his feelings. Sitting with clients in their grief for many years has taught me he is not alone in his denial of death. Therein lies the problem.

If I don’t believe that everything that has a beginning will one day have an ending, then there is also a good likelihood I will try to deny my grief when someone I love dies. What would it mean to start now to create space for grief in my life — not with an attitude that to do so would be negative and depressing, but rather with an understanding that it could be healthy, even liberating?

The death of someone I love is always profoundly sad, but not necessarily depressing. Perhaps the single most important thing to remember about grief is this: Sad isn’t bad.

Grief is not negative, it’s not wrong, and it’s not a mistake. It is the most natural response to losing someone you love.

My world is turned upside down overnight when a central person in my life dies. I come face to face with my own mortality — I become painfully aware that I, and everyone I love, will one day die. Little by little, rather than all at once, a profound sorrow will set in that is unlike anything I have ever experienced — the deeper the love and the connection to the one who died, the deeper and longer-lasting the pain.

I am reminded of the words of Kahlil Gibran who speaks of Joy and Sorrow. “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

It will take me a long time to begin to fully digest the fact that my loved one has died…that I will never again in this life be able to hug him or kiss her or share my life with him or her. Little by little, I become aware of the secondary losses that begin to pile up, including the loss of my identity — am I still a husband or wife? A mother or father? A brother or sister?  A son or a daughter? Married or single? 

Many parents who have lost a child tell me the question they most fear being asked by a stranger is, “How many children do you have?” Do I say, ‘I have four children,’ and leave it at that,’ or do I say, ‘I had four children, but one of them died.’”  For some people, just saying the word “died” is often not possible for a very long time, if ever.

Looking in the mirror after my loved one has died, I wonder who that person is looking back at me. Her eyes are dull and filled with pain, and she seems to have aged dramatically overnight. I don’t recognize her and the person she is becoming inside as the grief begins to settle in a little more each day. I wonder if I will ever again recognize the person in the mirror.

Newly bereaved, I worry I will always feel the way I do now, unable to find joy or meaning in anything, with a longing and an aching for my loved one that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my heart, mind, and gut — leaving me sick to my stomach and frightened. I don’t know how long I can endure this pain, and some days I don’t even know if I want to. I wonder if I will ever be the person I used to be before my loved one died.

I’m not the only one wondering about this. Those who love me are wondering the same thing — worried about me and feeling helpless when they are unable to give me back my lost joy and motivation. All I can do now is survive and get through my day. They are saddened by my sadness and would give anything to see me laughing and engaging in life as I once did. Though they wish the best for me, they sometimes push me in directions I’m not yet ready to move toward.

Maybe I’m not ready yet to go through her belongings or to attend a dinner party without him. They think I need a cheerleader to lift my spirits, when what I really need is someone who will just quietly sit with me, and if I want to talk about my grief they will just listen and not tell me what I should do, think, or feel as I move through these uncharted waters trying to find myself. I am fearful I will never be the person I used to be before my loved one died. I am fearful life will always be as flat and gray as it is now.

Grief demands our attention. When our feelings are not allowed expression, healing becomes delayed, and ultimately even more painful and debilitating. It is important who we choose to share our grief with — those who will listen without judgment or unsolicited advice make up the best support system when we are grieving the death of a loved one. The last thing we need is someone who tells us, “You should be over it and moving on with your life by now.”

Many years ago, in a bereavement support group setting, Mary shared a story that spoke to everyone in the group. A friend — a good friend — had come to visit her at her home two months after her husband died. After a couple of minutes, the friend asked Mary, “Is something wrong? You seem so sad!”

This was not the first time Mary had heard this and similar comments from both friends and family, and she was growing less patient and more angry with peoples’ insensitivity. Mary, in disbelief, looked at her friend and said, “Of course I’m sad, my husband died, and I’m lost.” To which her friend replied, “Oh…are you still having a hard time with that?”

Prepared for what she would say the next time someone said something so ignorant and hurtful, Mary stated, in a calm and neutral voice, “Well, you know, he’s still dead.” At first stunned and left speechless for some moments by Mary’s reply, the friend acknowledged her insensitivity. Much to her credit, Mary’s friend didn’t get defensive in her embarrassment.  “Of course you’re sad. I’m just living my life as I always have, and I sometimes forget you are no longer able to do that. I guess I just want you to look happy again, and I don’t really know what to say or do…so I sometimes say or do something stupid. I hope you can forgive me.” This is what a truly good friend is able to say in the midst of the awkwardness of grief. Mary had the courage to gently share the depth of her sadness, and in the process helped educate her friend about the realities of grief.

Moving toward grief and embracing it is not something we naturally want to do. It hurts too much to allow ourselves to fully feel the weight of what we are experiencing—to actually embrace it rather than push it away — but this is a critical part of the path toward healing. Grief leaves us feeling vulnerable and uncertain, and it takes an extraordinary amount of courage to let it lead us where we need to go.

You will encounter people who disagree with this, who might say things like, “Don’t dwell on it,” or “Just keep yourself busy and you won’t have to hurt so much.” While this advice is well-intended, it is never helpful. This unsolicited advice is the projection of someone whose recipe for coping with profound loss is to act as if it never happened — to simply put on a happy face, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and carry on. Business as usual.

The recipe does not include acknowledging and feeling the depth of your pain. Allowing ourselves to be with our grief does not mean we are dwelling on it.  Crying does not mean we are wallowing in it, or having a pity party. If ever there was a time to have sorrow for oneself, it is now — this terrible thing did happen, it cannot be changed, it is not a mistake.

To have sorrow for oneself is a necessary part of the healing process.  It may seem that embracing our grief will only push us into a deeper state of sadness, but doing so actually creates the space we need to begin the healing process.

People who have not known profound grief do not understand the overwhelming power and immensity of grief. Some still imagine they are in control of their lives, that mind over matter can solve everything. They have not yet learned that Grief is bigger than they are, and that it will not be dismissed without a very big price to pay — the price of living half a life. Grief deserves and demands my attention and expression. Doing so, I will eventually find healing, growth, and transformation.

Grief can be our most profound spiritual teacher, deepening our connection to life, and leaving us transformed in the process.

When I am deep in grief, I look to those who have travelled the grief journey before me and come out on the other side. They tell me it will get a little softer and easier over time, and the huge boulder of grief I now carry on my back will little by little get smaller and become more manageable until eventually it is reduced to a small polished stone I can carry in my pocket.

Their ability to rejoin life tells me I will one day do the same, not so much as the person I once was, but rather a wiser and more humane version of myself, capable of once again living a life full of meaning and joy — proof of the mysterious resiliency and capacity for healing present in every one of us.