The Comfort and Restrictions of our Grief

How does grief feel to you? 

Heavy bricks? A blanket wrapped around you? An endless tidal wave? Calm forest? 

I’ve heard all of those before. 

While widows can relate to one another, we still experience our grief and our loss individually. 

I often refer to grief as bricks when it gets heavy. I also believe we get so used to our grief we wrap up in it as if it’s a blanket. We get used to it, it’s hard to let it go. We find comfort there. Comfort by the familiarity of it and the hope that it keeps the shared love at the forefront.

I’ve stripped my grief blanket off. I’ve folded it up and placed it in the corner. I know it’s there, wanting to entice me to curl up inside it. But I keep it over in that corner. 

Walking around with it wrapped around me was restricting my ability to reach for anything in front of me. It was keeping me in place. A place I was familiar with—a place I could easily live with. Unfortunately, it was a place I couldn’t see the true parts of me that were hidden beneath that blanket. I couldn’t see my true desires in life as anything obtainable when my arms were stuck in this heavy, somewhat comforting blanket. 

So, in the corner it sits. It’ll remain there. 

My grief blanket was easier for me to remove because I chose to use it. As many of us do, I chose to look for the comfort in my grief. 

And then I stopped. 

It was really cold for a minute. It was scary. With that removed, I could see everything. I could see me again. I could see what’s in front of me. I could see what’s in my reach. And I didn’t have this blanket to keep me from getting there. It was me and only my choice what to grab.  

The possibilities of the world. The beauty of the world. The opportunities in the world. And all these things will be possible without that person around to share it. And that’s the first test: When you see that beauty, those possibilities, your opportunities, and know your loved one won’t be there—what do you do? Wrap in the blanket, or continue feeding the parts of you that really, really want to live?

What is your choice?

Many days you’ll have to ask yourself that question several times.

Lots of talk of this fluffy blanket, but what about those bricks? You can’t just fold those up in a corner. Ugh, I know. 

Personally, bricks are the most symbolic for me. In my early months I felt like bricks were piled on my chest. Balanced on my shoulders. Strapped to my ankles. I moved slower. They were piled so high I couldn’t see beyond my morning, my afternoon, my evening, my day, my week. 

I’m a visual person. So when they would get too heavy and I knew I needed to stand up, I would visualize taking the bricks off my chest one-by-one. I could breathe better with the removal of each one. Once I could breathe better, I could sit up. I could then unchain them from my ankles. Then I could stand up. I could take them off my shoulders. Then I could walk.  Now it’s a method I can switch my mind to at any moment if needed. I can remove the bricks, I can see the blanket. 

I can also walk through fire and dive deep in water. Because I’m a badass. I can breathe fresh air. Breathe while washing away my false limitations. Stand up. Fresh and strong and clear-minded. Clean. No more mud. 

When our community began building a new memorial pathway, buying a brick not only served the purpose of giving my kids and others a place to “visit” their dad, but it was also symbolic for me. 

I can place this brick right there. And I purposefully chose the bigger one. Double the size of a regular brick. 

It exists. I can see it and touch it. 

But it’s not weighing me down. It’s not a weight I need to carry. 

And now, we can use this brick as our favorite place to eat ice cream. It can be our favorite place to enjoy the Carolina weather. It can be whatever we want it to be. 

But it’s our choice now when we want to feel this particular brick. When we want it to be so close to our bodies that we can’t help but have tears roll down our face. Or when we have it close enough to our hearts to smile and laugh and share stories. 

I decided on placing that brick down in the Spring of 2020. It was meant to be for Father’s Day. I discussed with the boys what we would write on it. And then we let it be there and make its way into the Earth. We never mentioned it. And, to be honest, I hadn’t fully folded that blanket up yet. We didn’t actually go visit the brick until early 2021, shortly after their dad’s birthday. 

Grief is something that will always be with us. It’ll be in the corner of our eye, an extra weight that we get used to. I wish my kids didn’t have to know this feeling so young. It won’t be long until our youngest will have more years without his dad than with him. And not long after that it’ll be the same for my oldest. That thought alone has the potential of brining an entire truck load of bricks and dumping them on my chest. That thought alone could make me want to grab that blanket and curl up in it with my kids and stay there. And while I wish I had something profound to say for those that are reading this, I don’t. That is just the reality of our family. The reality of their life. Our life. But since I already know that truck load will probably pull up, I can keep the bricks outside of my door. And if we do grab the blanket for a day, we know it’s not meant to stick tight to our bodies, so we’ll fold it back up. 

Strength doesn’t come from the traumatic events and losses and abuse you’ve experienced; it comes from you continuously lifting yourself up. It comes from you lifting those bricks over and over again. It comes from digging up the roots of your pain. Getting to the bottom of it. Looking at the naked truth of it all and allowing your mind to accept it. It comes from allowing your mind to recognize when your body is being weighed down. And then allowing your brain the clarity to remember you have the strength to remove those bricks one-by-one, as many as you can handle that day.

You will become a master of your own strength rather than a master of living inside your own grief. 

I know it’s been awhile since I posted on this blog. I’ve been developing programs to work more closely with widows. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: grief shakes us, it flips our lives, it makes a mess, it changes the wiring of our brain. But it doesn’t take our core. Though they get buried, our innate attributes are still there. 

Turning a light on for another woman who is having trouble seeing the strength and beauty of herself is at the core of who I am. It was what led me before I was a widow and it’ll continue to be what drives me now, even as a widow. 

When those bricks are piled high, I can lay down next to you. 

When you feel you need to keep that blanket wrapped around you, I’ll bring the ice cream. I’ll bring the coffee. 

And when you start to wonder if you really need to have that blanket wrapped so tight every single day, I’ll be there to listen to you. 

And then when you’re ready to really take that step, fold that blanket, and look at the beauty that lies right in front of you—I’ll be available to work with you. To turn that light on, so you can see the many opportunities waiting for you. 

I’ll invite you in to learn and trust that when you really strip it all down, you have the strength to leave that pile of bricks at the door. You have the strength to remove them one-by-one. 

And no, it’s not because you experienced something terrible. 

It is because when you allow the parts of you that are screaming to live to do just that (live), you’ll be amazed at how strong you’ve been all along.