November 26, 2020

I’m (Not) Sorry my Grief makes you Uncomfortable.

News flash: it makes me uncomfortable, too.

I’m uncomfortable all of the time. Do you know what that’s like?

It’s like not being able to finish a thought—ever. It’s like changing my clothes three to four times a day because I’m crawling out of my skin, and skinny jeans may feel better than yoga pants. It’s like a pit in the middle of my stomach that doesn’t go away. It’s like driving down the road and thinking: that tree looks perfect to drive into.

I’m still here.

I’m still the person you know and have laughed with and maybe even love. The me here now is transforming, and I guess the question is: do you want to take this journey with me?

The journey of me unraveling my grief and talking about my daughter. Saying her name will become a beautiful thing in time, but, right now, it is uncomfortable and carries all kinds of pain.

Or, do I make you uncomfortable?

I may be redundant in what I say; I may tell you the same story twice; I may weep because her brother, my surviving son, will never experience his life with a sibling again. I may throw up in the middle of a public street because I see a girl at the park from a distance who resembles my daughter.

All of this is uncomfortable.

But can we find a comfort level together that allows us to explore grief in all its forms, acknowledging that it is okay to be uncomfortable? Can we not run from it?

Can you stand to hear me cry?

Can you look at my face when I’m ugly crying?

Can you sit next to me in complete silence and not feel the need to fix the moment?

Nobody can fix this. I’m her mom, and I can’t even fix this. The only thing I can do is work to discover what this is all for.

My purpose through this suffering and the loss of my entire life is the uncomfortable part. For me, for you, for everyone who experiences loss.

Grief is uncomfortable. This is a fact. But, we can make it productive by continuing to show up for each other, being honest, and vulnerable. And, really, shutting the f*ck up when all the words are gone.


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Jessica C. Guberman  |  Contribution: 1,305

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