There is a fair bit of sadness in my orbit at the moment, and I’m feeling a heavy heart.
I continue to be humbled by loss and its power to take us to our knees. And I notice that my instinct, despite everything I know, is still to wish I had the perfect thing to say or do that would make anything better.
And I know it’s not possible. It’s not possible to be made right, because when someone dies that can never be undone.
People die all the time. And it’s unfair. And there isn’t a reason for it. Nothing could make the pain and missing of that person worth it.
I often revisit Megan Devine’s book It’s Ok that You’re Not Ok, because after Mike died it was the first thing I read that made me feel like I wasn’t losing my mind.
The book opens with the following words, or you can listen to her say them in her own voice here.1
“Here is what I most want you to know: this really is as bad as you think. No matter what anyone else says, this sucks. What has happened cannot be made right. What is lost cannot be restored. There is no beauty here. Inside this central fact. Acknowledgement is everything. You’re in pain. It can’t be made better.”
When staring at the devastation of what was, offering a bereaved person a reason is no use. In fact, it’s harmful. Justification in the face of loss is cruel. All we can do is witness. We can also bring emergency equipment.2 And perhaps help them sift through the wreckage.3
Some things just are. We can’t be cheered. We don’t need to move on from it. Feelings are called that because we’re supposed to… feel them! And feeling them can feel impossible.
Also from Megan Devine:
“Some days, some moments, you will be able to hold your gaze on your own broken heart, and some days, some moments, that gaze will be impossible.”
Numbness and distraction might be necessary at times too. When it’s all too much. A life altering loss can feel like being untethered from anything known. Everything is affected and there can be a sense of a complete lack of control and knowing.
All we can do is surrender to the moment. Allowing whatever is, to be. It is a slow process finding our way back to our forever changed reality, and our new self. Moving slowly is a gift we can give ourselves.
I don’t have the promise that time will heal all wounds. I will never bullshit a grieving person. And I can offer this. When Mike died, I thought I would always feel as bad as I did. And a few years out from his death, I don’t feel the same way. The acute pain from loss softened. That’s been true for me.
Again and again, I’m reminded that the only salve is to let the sadness and hurt and anger, exist. To acknowledge the severity of our situation and to witness our own pain.
As friends, we can care enough to be uncomfortable with the truth that some things are just horrible and sad and devastating. And sitting with that and opening our hearts to face that with them is all that can be done. We can also send food, and love notes, and thoughtful gifts.
Whether you’re at the centre of a loss, or supporting someone who is, all we can do is witness and speak the truth.
For anyone else with a tender heart, go slowly and gently with yourself.
I first listened to the audio version because I struggled to read. If you’re grieving and finding it hard to read, audio books are great.
In this case, a sandwich or a cup of tea counts as lifesaving equipment (as does chocolate).