grief & my take on her

A lot of our emotions feel like they happen to us. They are informative experiences, lively entities full of bodily sensations. Sadness is a noun (says Google). Well, I consider grief a verb, the action of acceptance. She is far from linear, never over. To me, it’s a slippery force, throwing us into puddles and pockets out of nowhere. It’s a lot of doing—doing that is often forced upon us. I call it "her" because it’s cyclical and has seasons. I don’t believe grief follows a 24.2-hour circadian rhythm; it aligns more closely with a menstrual cycle. It’s predictable, yet not. It’s going to hit you, swallow you, sneak up behind you to hug you when you see something that reminds you—“Oh. I never got that when I was young.” Or, “Oh. That’s lost and over now.” The “Oh” is essential. A soft shock. The child within us slumps their shoulders. The teenager pretends indifference. Oh. That friend and I don’t share the same interests anymore… Oh. When was the last time I swung on a swing set? Oh. I can’t call them anymore. There’s no one to call.

I think of ‘therapy school’ in a funny way. It’s like (what I imagine) Hogwarts felt like on the first day. There are key characters and naturally mythical qualities that come along with a bunch of adults choosing to sit and learn how to… listen better? I remember a recurring dance in the classroom of Person of the Therapist class. A class where you analyzed yourself deeply and helped others do the same, so you could walk into a therapy room and not projectile project all over the client. We’d weave our way through a big, long journey, playing with an observation or feeling someone would bring up. We’d open all these doors and wander down different hallways. And then, we’d end up at a strange dead end. We’d look to the professor, and thanks to my stunning neurodivergent pattern recognition (I’m kidding, partially), I knew what she’d say. “What do I do with this, then?” was always the question, begged with words or eyes. “Grieve… You grieve.” What do we do when we realize we’ve been over-functioning for someone, asking them in so many ways to step up to the plate? We grieve. What do we do when we revisit our past and realize a parent wasn’t there for us emotionally, and we blamed ourselves? We grieve.

There was often this held-breath-waiting-for-a-solution-to-be-proposed sort of pause in class. “No. We don’t recommend you run back to your caregivers and tell them all the ways they fell short.” The solution is grief. And the action label on her feels almost laughable, as it mostly looks like surrendering to her, putting our hands up, and pouring some tea. Or tucking ourselves into bed, preparing for a big cry (hello, essential cortisol release).

I like grief now. I expect it, knowing I can never expect when exactly she will show up. There is something meta about it- like my past versions come back and sprinkle in painful reminders. Yet those reminders help me know myself better and the puddles and pockets ground me in this human experience.

Oh. You don’t like grief yet? You don’t want to grieve all there is to grieve? What do you do now?

You grieve.