The Motherless Decade: Ten Lessons I've Learned About Grief
Published January 2020. Selected on Medium as Editor’s Pick.
I lost my Mom ten years ago today. The phone call woke me from a Sunday afternoon nap, and the moment I heard my Dad’s voice I knew nothing would ever be the same.
And it hasn’t been.
I remember standing up and saying to Ashley, “That’s it. She’s gone. Dead.” I remember the silence. How calm I felt. I walked around the house gathering random objects and articles of clothing into a suitcase. I never thought for a moment to book a flight. We packed the car, bulldog and all, and drove 1,300 miles from Denver to Cleveland. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I’m not sure I even said a word.
I’ve learned so many lessons over the past ten years. About myself, about grief, about how to live a better life. Here’s the list of my favorite ten.
Grief never ends. It evolves and dissipates, compounds then disappears, wakes you from deep sleep but sometimes knocks you out. It surprises you, too, but definitely does not go away.
Friends. They change, too. Or rather, your understanding of who they are changes.You learn a lot about people when you’re at your lowest point. Look back five years after a loss this big and you might notice that your life has completely changed.
Embrace the stranger. There’s comfort to be found in the unknown. In the first days after my Mom died, I heard more from people I barely knew than those who knew me best. You’ll find yourself bonding over common loss, or offering solace to someone you barely know. That’s the “club.”
And the “club” is real. The motherless and the fatherless, we’re all in this together. You learn that immediately, and it’s fucking magical.
It gets dark. Really, really dark. You’ll be angry for a long time, and it’ll come back in spurts when you least expect it. But appreciate the darkness. Run towards it and not away. If you hide, it will chase and haunt you. It’s faster than you.
There’s truth in that darkness. About you and those you love, about the life you’re leading and the time you have left to dive headfirst into every moment.
Change everything. Or at least some things. Move, rediscover an old passion, find a different one, get a new job, change careers entirely. Have a baby. Or do all of those things. That worked, too.
Be sad. Own it. Melancholy is ok if it doesn’t paralyze you. Listen to sad songs, watch depressing movies, read books about human pain. It reminds you that you’re not alone, and you might even find that it makes you oddly optimistic in the end.
Because the truth is, loss can either paralyze or revitalize. You choose. Remember, if you run from it, you’ll never beat it.
Loss is a gift. If you see it that way. If you don’t let it define you. If you listen to it as a reminder that every single thing is fleeting, you might just find that your life has never been better than after unthinkable loss.
At least that’s what happened to me.
