900

I am very familiar with grief.

Living with grief is a bit like having a limp. Most days, you’re used to it. You’ve adapted and accommodated for your limp so it doesn’t typically hinder daily tasks. But then one day it acts up. It prevents you from going on a run. Your limp awakens, forcing you to be acutely aware of the disability you’ve been living with.

People don’t like it when others talk about disabilities, because they are sometimes uncomfortable to acknowledge. We’re all not dealt the same hand, and while we shouldn’t compare our set of cards to someone else’s, we often do.

Grief is like that. It makes others squirm when we talk about our wounds, but it’s a part of who we are. It’s how we exist.

I know people that have been devastated by the loss of an elderly grandparent, or even a pet. Is that the same as losing a parent, or a child?

Do my grief cards trump anyone else’s?

No.

Are we only dealt cards we can handle – thereby assuming some of us are better equipped to handle “bigger” and “smaller” traumas?

Also no.

Trauma isn’t measurable; there’s no chart or numerical value we can use to rate our emotional wounds. We just do the best we can do, accommodating for the wounds we carry, often trying to avoid situations that may open them up.

After my mom passed, I could sense something was off when a date or moment was approaching that would aggravate my wounds. Like aching joints at the cusp of a cold front, you know it’s just around the corner.

Today, my wounds hurt. I’m not home with my husband or my other children, and something was off. My husband is definitely my source of comfort, as we’ve suffered together our own worst nightmare. We know how to soothe each other’s wounds, and we know when to let the other cry as we offer a strong shoulder and silence because sometimes there are no words that will ever make it better.

Today marks 900 days without Samshel. Abigail and I went on a girls’ trip to visit my brother and sister-in-law and their new baby. I have been very much aware that this is a trip she would’ve joined us on. Abigail would’ve had someone to sit with on the plane, to share songs and movies with. She would’ve had her sister to shop with at the mall.

900 days of my heart aching.

A phrase that’s often offered as solace is “you’re so strong” and that’s quite literally the opposite of how you feel, because a scent or sound or simple memory can cut you off at the knees. You don’t feel strong when you feel so unbearably broken.

There’s no rhyme or reason for the cards I’ve been dealt. I’m not stronger than anyone else, no more capable than the next person to suffer.

But I can choose to let my grief consume me, or I can use my grief and the words I have to comfort others. I hear I’m good at that, and even as I sit here with tears rolling down my cheeks, I know inside that someone needs to read this.

If your joints ache when the weather is about to change, you often share that with others to let them better prepare.

If your heart and soul have been shattered by grief or loss or trauma, all it means is that your edges are softer in order to offer comfort to others. You can let it destroy you, or you can use it to grow into something more beautiful.

We don’t get to choose whether or not we grieve, but we can choose to let it break or strengthen us. It often does both, regardless.

I have decided, little by little, to share my story in the hopes that it will help others. My loss might make others uncomfortable, but this is my life and my story to tell and we all deserve to know that our story matters.

You matter. If you are reading this, you matter and the world needs all that you have to offer, no matter how small or insignificant you may feel.

Your story and your experience may be a source of comfort or inspiration to others. Don’t let anything or anyone silence your voice.