Mindful Ramblings

Grief. Loss. Whatever we want to label it today, has given me a different form of grace that I didn’t have before. I do consider my husband dying as my “before and after.” I was this and now I’m something new. My integrity and core are still very similar but my motivations are different. My triggers are different. My goals. My frustrations. My patience.

Small talk was never something I enjoyed before and now it’s even more excruciating. Either genuinely enjoy greeting another person or just keep walking. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Cars not moving instantly when the light turns green no longer bothers me. I accidentally sat a little longer when the light switched back to green the week after my husband’s funeral and it made me wonder how many other people take that pause for a similar reason. Sure, many are finishing up a text; but even still, let them. Better they finish up while stopped then do it while driving and cost a family a loved one.

Traffic. I’ll still look at my gps and try to take the route with less congestion, but I just enjoy the music while stopped on the highway instead of getting frustrated with the little movement. Who knows why everything is stopped. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe there’s construction.

Where there is construction there are humans working who are loved by others. Just let it be.

Driving is also a time when my tears flow with no care of where I’m heading. Have to walk into my child’s school? Well, red eyes it is. I’m thankful to be living in the south where sunglasses are common to wear year-round. If you were a bottom lashes mascara-wearer, maybe you’ll start taking a break from that.

Do I spend my days making sure my house is always in order? Absolutely not. Learning to embrace the many messes of life.

Everyone is going through their own thing. And that’s something we all say, but not necessarily how we all live and I’m learning to do that. I’m trying to do that. I’m learning to allow myself to cancel plans and not stick with something that feels off simply because other people want me to do it.

In this moment, while I’m figuring out my new way, I’m learning to say “no” more. It falls off my tongue a bit quicker now. Just no. I’m learning it really isn’t that big of a deal, either.

A change of plans is a new opportunity. A different opportunity. If people get upset with you about it, that’s something they will need to work through for themselves. Or not. Whatever.

I’m learning that I don’t owe anyone anything. And no one owes me anything either. I don’t even owe anything to my husband. He didn’t owe anything to me. We are who we are. We knew who we were. We accepted each other anyway.

That is what I miss about having him around the most. When he was around me he was whoever he wanted to be and I accepted it. I may not have always liked it. But he was who he was. I was whoever I wanted to be and he accepted it. I’m sure he didn’t always like it. But we could say anything we wanted to say.

Last week I was feeling particularly lonely. I’m not incredibly comfortable with that feeling. I never mind being physically alone; I tend to enjoy it. I like shopping alone. Working out alone. Watching shows, eating, simply breathing—the basics. But I really started to get my first deep pangs of loneliness and it was because that man and that body that I always had around, always had the ability to talk to no matter where we lived through all the years, wasn’t here. And I wanted to bounce ideas off someone about redecorating our house and extracurricular activities for the boys and just vent to about the frustrations of living in this life and my go-to was no longer here. And I let myself fall into loneliness, because I was focusing on what and who wasn’t here. I was focusing on not having him in my corner anymore. I was focusing on the nasty comments I’ve heard from others about how I’m doing everything wrong and the slaps in the face I’ve received since my husband’s death and it wasn’t helpful.

And then my son asked me something along the lines of why do I always speak so kindly of others when they are rude to me. And that opened a huge discussion I wasn’t prepared for, but it reminded me that I cannot cover for other adults. They are who they are. Children are observant.

So I shifted. I made a list. I set goals. I made a promise to myself. I will focus more on what I can do now. I will focus on what I have. I know I’ll get side-tracked, but my positive thoughts will outweigh my negatives. I will not worry myself with those who choose that my new life is too inconvenient for them. I will not worry myself with those who believe I should grieve a certain way or it’s the wrong way. Those who want to mock my grief, the grief of my children—they have serious personal issues they need to work out on their own. When I hear people mock the grief of others, I’ll take a moment to let them know they may want to step back a minute and reevaluate that.

Death takes people out of their world. Death changes the people who remain here. It puts you somewhere you never intended to be. But you’re there. And you’ll work it. You’ll survive it. You’ll be okay. But that’s only because you are you.

I’m learning that when you lose a spouse—when you lose the co-parent to your children—you never completely lose that person. They are gone, yes. But their presence is in you now. Their hopes and dreams and fears are now with you. You honor them. You carry them. You respect them. Not because you owe them that. Not because you fear they’ll be angry with you if you don’t. Because your children are worthy of that. And it can be heavy. But you learn to carry it. Everyday. It simply becomes you. It’s how you walk now. And it’s weird.

It’s weird because your differences no longer matter. Your disagreements. Your misunderstandings. They don’t matter. You just look at what you’ve created. Your children. Your life. And you think, “How can I continue to make this beautiful?” And then you do that. With a smile. And it’s difficult.

While I have seen first-hand the good in so many around me and my community, the ugly from others has never been louder. My kids are noticing the ugly. And I hear it and see it and say goodbye to it. We have to continue to show that there will always be beauty. Our loss isn’t beautiful. But we can still take the steps and breaks we need to take to live beautifully.

And I’m willing to bet it’s eerily similar when you lose a child or a parent or a sibling, but I haven’t experienced that. Not yet. I only know for sure what I walk through. But being someone who had to pick out an outfit for the coffin preview, I can confidently say that all of our hearts are heavy. I know our chests are cracked.

And somehow, with that, I’ve become softer and harder all at once.

_________

The featured photo is something that was shared with me from my husband and I’ve been searching for it to find who created it and where I can buy an actual print. If anyone has those answers, please let me know. Thank you!