I am tired.
I don’t feel like walking, going to yoga, eating anything other than my favorite sweets and carbs.
I don’t feel like being social and for sure I don’t want to practice patience.
I don’t want to search for the middle path, compromise, find a way through.
I don’t want to keep trying and I don’t want to practice counterbalancing negatives with positives.
I don’t want to.
Sometimes living forward in grief feels like being in quicksand with cement shoes.
Sometimes I just want to react (scream, cry, stomp my feet) instead of responding with self-awareness and intention.
Sometimes it takes me longer to remember how much better it feels to breathe, to be mindful, to practice gratitude, to practice self-care.
Is it the weight of knowing that our loved ones are not coming back to us?
That life as it was before will never be again?
Is it the power we give to fears over facts? Raw emotion over logic?
Is it the knowing that bad things happen to good people, every day, and we have a front row seat?
Is it that trying to be the change sometimes feels so hopeless and powerless because change takes so long and is often so hard to see and feel?
Sometimes (truthfully more than just sometimes) I want to go back home to my Mom’s, light a fire, laugh with her and feel the comfort of unconditional love, security, and the youthful belief that all is right with the world.
And then I remember I can not go home. She is no longer here. The home I am longing for no longer exists.
So, I go home to the home I created. I mother myself, focus on what is good, reach out to those I love who love me back in ways that make me smile, feel seen, heard and valued (even just a little bit). I go for a walk or to yoga. I make myself a cup of tea and feel grateful that I am healthy, safe, able to care for myself, and have others in my life who care for me. I embrace the realization that every day I have a choice and a purpose. I am fortunate enough to live, to love, to try and see light in darkness. One day at a time. And sometimes (truthfully more than just sometimes) this is enough.
I love these! Adam added me to the list a few years ago when my Dad passed and I continue to read them.
Thank you Sue. So grateful you are finding meaning in my words.
Oh sweet Jen, as always, so thankful for you and your work. I have recommended your blog to more friends, acquaintances and patients than I can count. Thank you for sharing, once again. Stop over anytime for a cup of tea and a hug .
Diane, Thank you. Always and forever for being such a supportive source of light and goodness.
Just wanted you to know I stumbled upon your writing on tears…it so moved me, like your words were a cup outstretched to hold my tears and a soft hand to wipe them as they fall. I’ve never had that physically. With someone in the present. I grieve those who still live, those who have hurt me and continue to try to hurt me through my child, and those who never were and never will be but a figment of my longing and desire for. Ghosts.
So thank you.
You are welcome. Grief is painful. I am sorry for your pain.