Grief Is Patient

When my husband died in 2014, his loss was sudden and unexpected. It blindsided us all - his family, friends, co-workers, and extended community. He was young and it was tragic. As a widow, my main focus was on my children who were 12 and 14 years old at the time. They were traumatized on so many levels. They left for school one morning and had a dad. When they came home that same day, they didn’t. Their world was turned upside down and I felt like I was the only person they could really turn to for comfort, support, and reassurance. I felt like my job was to be there for them as much as possible, even as they clung to me, at times, in fear that something “bad” might happen to me too. “I’m the grown up,” I kept saying. “I can handle this.” “They’re just kids. They don’t have the tools or resources for dealing with this kind of thing.”

And so, despite the fact that I would rage in my grief by myself at times; despite the fact that I would sob in the car and in the house and on walks by myself; despite the fact that I thought I was “attending to” my grief as best I could, I put most of my focus, thoughts, time, and attention on my children. They were my biggest concern. “I was the grown up.” I’d be fine.

But here’s the thing - I wasn’t. What I longed for, what I craved, what I felt I needed down deep in my soul, more than anything, was time away. Time away from work and kids and daily life. Time to catch up in my heart and mind with what had just happened to my life and my love. Time to stare at the ocean and do nothing else. Time and space for what Alan Wolfelt says grief needs - “sanctuary.” That’s what I wanted - “a place of refuge for my grief from the outside world.”

Sadly, unfortunately, I pushed that need aside and I “pushed through.” I kept going. I kept showing up for all the other people and things in my life that “needed” me and I ignored the part of me that was crying for time alone. And eight years later, (that’s how long it’s been), that part of me is still waiting for that time away. That wounded part of me is still waiting for sanctuary - a place by the ocean where I can stare at the water and leave the world behind. And here’s what I’ve realized - it’s not too late. Even though almost a decade has passed, it’s not too late to spend time with my grief by the ocean. It’s not too late to give myself the thing that I needed most back then. And what I want to say is that it’s not too late for you either. It’s not too late to mourn all the people, places, and things that you haven’t had time to grieve. It’s not too late to give yourself the time and space that you didn’t have back when the divorce happened, or the job loss, or the miscarriage, or the death of someone you loved. Grief is patient. It will wait. It will wait until you think you’re “over it” or you’ve moved on or you’re “doing fine.” And then it will say, “Remember me?” Even after years or decades have gone by, it’s not too late (it’s never too late) to tend to the most wounded parts of ourselves, to feel into them, and to ask, “What do you need?” And then give it.