Saying “Hello” to the Grief Beneath
The beautiful response from last week’s post about my personal struggles with mental health issues, further confirms that not only are we all in this crazy journey together, but that when we are able to give vulnerable voice to our own struggles, we help to normalize these struggles for other people. I’m deeply grateful to all of the love and reflections that have been shared on that post.
This week, we’re taking a closer look at grief . . . a word that for some people may feel as inviting as a walk across a bed of hot coals.
In my experience, grief is the undercurrent of so many mental health struggles. And like a riptide in the ocean, unseen grief can pull us under without any warning. Also like a riptide, the more we fight against the grief, the more likely we are to go under and drown in the ocean of our accumulated lifetime of grief.
In just a few days - May 25th - it will be 11 years since our mom died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 58. And although her death may be the most piercing form of grief that I’ve yet experienced, that grief was layered upon years and years of other forms of unmet and unseen grief.
Definitions of grief point to deep sorrow, sadness, and emotional suffering. And most definitions typically tie the experience of grief to the death of a loved one. Certainly the death of a loved one allows us to get swept away in that riptide of grief. Importantly though, death of a loved one isn’t the only time we experience grief.
For me, a more comprehensive definition of grief is needed that doesn’t focus first and foremost on the death of a loved one. Instead, I believe that a better definition of grief is one that focuses on loss in general.
Loss of:
Someone we know - whether we loved them or not;
A pet;
A job;
A spouse or partner through divorce or break-up;
A house;
Finances;
Physical, mental, or emotional health;
An identity;
A way of life or being;
Culture;
Language;
Belonging;
Self
And grief isn’t just something that happens when there is a current or past loss. We can experience something called “anticipatory grief” - when we fear that a loss is impending - like when someone is terminally ill or we fear a loss of job due to a looming recession.
There’s also “traumatic grief” from losses associated with events like 9/11, or being the victim of a crime, or systemic oppression and racism.
Just as varied as the circumstances that trigger grief are the ways in which people struggle, cope with, or “deal with” with grief.
And I say “deal with” because that’s pretty much how we approach grief in the United States and other westernized, white patriarchal cultures. Grief is viewed as something that we have to “deal with” like a termite infestation: zap it away. Kill every last piece of it.
About six or eight weeks after my mom died, I was having a particularly rough day. Someone close to me asked why I was “in such a mood.” When I explained how sad I was, how I was still grieving and processing my mom’s death, this person had the audacity to say “shouldn’t you be over that by now?” (How I refrained from slapping the piss outta that person is beyond me).
Yet, that’s how so many people view grief . . . as having some timeframe and socially acceptable parameters around it. Like there’s something wrong with you if you haven’t moved past your grief in the time and manner in which someone else thinks you should.
Most of us have never been given the permission or the tools to effectively and gracefully navigate our grief. Instead, we use distractions and cute little toxic positivity mantras to try to bypass the depth of our grief. All of those distractions and avoidance mechanisms are just resistance. Resistance to the pain, the heaviness, and–most importantly–the invitations of grief.
Consequently, we learn throughout our lives - from family, friends, work, church, society, culture - that grief is unacceptable. That it’s something to experience (if at all) for a limited amount of time, and then it’s time to “move on.” And god forbid if you get “stuck in your grief,” then there’s something wrong with you. People don’t want to spend time with you because you’re too much of a “Debbie Downer.”
So, we learn that we have two choices: either stuff the grief down, bypass it, ignore - whatever we need to do so that neither we nor anyone around us has to deal with our grief; or wear our grief on our sleeve, and risk being alienated by people who don’t want to be around us because they can’t handle our grief.
Either way, we begin to associate “grieving” with “weakness.” And, as any good American knows, weakness is unacceptable, right? So, to avoid being perceived as weak, we either isolate our grief or isolate ourselves. In the end, we end up living from a place of shame and fear.
All of that creates the types of shadows that I discussed a few weeks ago. It creates a shadow of unmet grief.
The shadow of unmet grief is a sneaky bitch.
Like the riptides in the ocean, when we’re not aware of the unmet grief that lurks beneath the surface, we tend to get pulled down by it when we least expect it.
Maybe someone says something seemingly innocuous to you, but it just sets you off.
You see some freaking Sarah McLachlan commercial on tv and start weeping.
You never used to cry at funerals, and now, you start crying the minute you walk into the service.
You carry a heaviness around in your chest or stomach that you just can’t seem to identify.
You get moments of sadness or irritation or anger that sweep over you out of nowhere.
You gain a lot of weight.
You lose a lot of weight.
You feel raw, all the time . . . like the slightest little question, obligation, or comment, might unravel you.
You feel restless all the time.
You have trouble sleeping.
I could go on and on. Although all of these experiences could also have other contributing factors, the seed I want to plant for you is to start getting curious about how grief may be lurking beneath your surface like a riptide in the ocean. As with all of the work that I do and encourage you to do for yourselves, the first step is always awareness.
Becoming aware of our grief doesn’t sound super fun, right? Of course not. The deep inner work that most of us are being called to do in our lives is never “fun.” And, it is absolutely vital to a full, whole, thriving life.
Why is it important to start to become aware of how grief may be showing up for us? Well, the answer is not so that we can “fix it.” I believe that if we approach grief through the lens of “fixing” it or “fixing ourselves,” we lose an opportunity to become a true spiritual warrior on our path.
As dark, heavy, and painful as grief is, it also is one of our greatest teachers. And I’m not saying that in some polly-anna “there’s a lesson in everything” kind of way. That shit makes me wanna upchuck because it’s cloaked in a lot of dimestore, late-nite infomercial hacks that Americans typically love.
When I say that grief is one of our greatest teachers, I mean that when we have the presence and capacity to meet our grief, we can learn how to stop resisting it. And learning to stop resisting, is our greatest pathway to becoming a spiritual warrior.
Because here’s the thing: your grief isn’t actually what’s causing you to suffer. It’s the resistance to your grief that’s causing your suffering. And for those of you who think, “Oh, I dealt with my grief by pulling myself up by my bootstraps,” I hate to tell ya my dear, but that’s also a form of resistance . . . one that will come back later to bite you in the ass.
I’ve been reading Pema Chodron’s book, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. She writes in the book (p. 8) that she had a sign she used to pin up on her wall that read: “Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”
That quote landed deep within me . . . that word “annihilation” seemed so spot on. When we allow ourselves to feel our grief, it can feel like we’re being annihilated. And who wants to feel that way? That sure as shit ain’t no fun. And yet–it’s necessary.
As Chodron writes (p.9):
“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”
So how do we create that room for all of that to happen? How do we meet our unmet grief so that it doesn’t pull us under like the riptide?
Well, the most powerful way in my experience, and apparently in Chodron’s too, is through meditation. “Meditation is an invitation to notice when we reach our limit and to not get carried away . . . .” (p. 14). I read that as meditation being an invitation to not get carried away by the riptide.
This morning, I sat in my meditation with an invitation on my heart to open up to my grief . . . to meet it . . . to feel the energy of that grief . . . to not fight against the current of the grief. When we can be present with the sensations of grief–the energy of it–instead of trying to ignore or push it away, something powerful can happen.
“[A] hardness in us will dissolve. We will be softened by the sheer force of whatever energy arises.” (p. 16).
As I sat in meditation, I allowed a door to crack open to my grief. I didn’t barge in . . . I slowly allowed it to arise, to bring some air to it, to poke some little holes around the fortress of my grief so that it could breathe a bit.
And then, I said “Hello.” I felt into the heavy sensation of grief in my chest that felt like it wanted to squeeze the life out of me. And I mentally whispered, “hello.”
This silent whisper of “hello” was my way of greeting my unmet grief. Of allowing it to be fully seen by me.
It’s like when you’re running and running because you see a dark monster behind you that you want to avoid. But when you stop, turn toward it, and say, “hello,” you see that it was your own shadow all along. You weren’t running from a monster. You were running from the shadow that you yourself have cast.
By turning to my grief and saying “hello,” it stopped chasing after me. That shadow of unmet grief only wants to be seen, heard, and acknowledged.
Once I was able to say “hello” and allow it to sit there in my chest without trying to run from it or push it away, it started to soften. Instead of sitting on my chest like an elephant, it was floating in the space that my whole body provides. Floating there . . . along with all of the other sensations and emotions that can be present at any given moment. It was no longer running the show . . . no longer driving the train. Grief was now just an audience member . . . a passenger on the train.
By meeting my unmet grief, I wasn’t trying to “make it go away.” That’s just another form of resistance. Rather, in meeting my grief, I allowed it to come on this ride with me–just in more of a backseat role. By softening my resistance to it, it softened its hold over me.
I know that may sound difficult to grasp or believe, and I don’t pretend to assume that you would have the same experience, especially if you are new to meditation. If that’s you, or if you have been particularly struggling with new or profoundly deep grief, I encourage you to not force yourself to bear down on your grief to try to feel the energy of it. That’s actually counter to the invitation of meditation.
My invitation here–if it feels within your capacity in this moment–is to find a quiet place, take a seat, take a deep breath, see where you can feel your grief in your body, and then–gently and with curiosity–say, “hello.”
Keep breathing and repeating “hello” . . . to see what happens. Don’t “expect” the grief to soften or try to “make it” soften . . . be curious. Stay as present with it and keep greeting it with “hello” for as long as comfortably possible. Then, let go of the practice, and come back again later.
I’m not one to say that meditation is cure all. I am one to say, however, that meditation can plant a seed.
A seed for softening. For less resistance.
I have realized in the years since my mom died that I have a lot of unmet grief. From chronic traumas, to my parents’ divorce, to deaths of grandparents, to breakups . . . layers and layers of unmet grief all lurking beneath the mother load of riptides of grief– my mom’s death.
I also have realized that grief doesn’t usually go away, nor should we approach it with that expectation–or any expectation for that matter.
Instead, I’ve realized that my shadow of unmet grief–like all of my other shadows–can soften and release its paralyzing hold over me when I can turn toward it instead of running from it. When I can create space for it to be there instead of trying to excise it from my life. And, when I can take a moment to say, “hello.”
My invitation to you this week is to try to become aware of your unmet grief and say, “hello.”
I also offer that I’m available to support and guide you in processing through your grief with meditation practices. If not me, then I encourage you to find a grief coach or grief counselor.
Finally, I highly recommend the podcast, Grief is a Sneaky Bitch, with Lisa Keefauver.
If you want to practice saying “hello” to your grief, I invite you to do so below by just dropping a “hello.” If we can see a string of “hello’s,” it’s like we’re throwing a lifeline to each other . . . .