Could I Actually Love My Grief?
Even thinking the thought breaks my brain, but it appears to be true
When my mom died six years ago, it was the first major loss of my life. I’d been extraordinarily fortunate over the years, as I managed to mostly steer clear of the type of tragedy that sends you reeling into a pit of despair. Being able to reach my late thirties before having to learn to navigate grief is one of the major blessings of my life, but of course, that also meant I had absolutely no clue what the hell I was doing.
I despise not having a road map when it comes to my emotions. I want to know what to expect ahead of time, and if things stray from the course, it’s pretty easy for me to spiral completely. Despite flying blind here, I think I’ve been doing a half-decent job here. I thought that I had a good idea of how things would go — there would be a deep sadness at first that eventually faded into acceptance and peace. And, for the most part, this has been the course.
Except for one development that I’m still struggling to fully comprehend — I kind of like having this grief.