When a loved one dies, we’re left to pick up the pieces.
But before we can even begin to do that, we’re struck with fear, loneliness and an unshakable feeling that life will never be the same. It will carry with it this black cloud that looms overhead and has a diameter the length of 5,000 football fields. Yup, pretty grim. And trying to comprehend that someday that cloud will hopefully get smaller, is pretty much a delusion.
At the beginning we’re trying to learn how to breathe again, walk again, talk again, pretty much function again. And we do a lot of this alone. Because society in general has this desire for you to be “okay”. Back to your ol’ self again. And people think the easiest way to “help” with this, is to give you a few weeks (that might even be a little generous) to be sad, and then barely mention the devastation that has just happened. Oh yeah, because that’s helpful (shaking my head).
When my son, Chase, passed away I couldn’t even hold a coffee cup. Literally. One morning, I came out of my bedroom and took a seat on the couch. I had poured a cup of coffee and was settling in to try and watch the Today show. What I was really doing was staring at a TV screen while asking myself the unsolvable questions like “why did this happen to me?”. My Dad was sitting near me and he could see that my mind was elsewhere. As my chin began to quiver, and I could feel the tears start to well, my coffee cup started to feel like the anvil from a Looney Tunes cartoon, and it was slowly going down . My Dad got up and grabbed the cup from my hand as once again, I’d become disinterested in even pretending to do the simplest task.
This was life. For a long time.
But there were always subtle signs.
My husband and I had taken a several day getaway after our son’s funeral. Glad we didn’t pick anywhere magical because it would have been forever ruined. We arrived back to our now quiet home, and started unpacking our things. I made my way to the kitchen and glanced at our fishbowl. Our fish, who had been making his daily swimming laps in our kitchen for the past five years, was floating on top of the water. All I remember saying is “Are you freakin’ kidding me? We can’t even keep our fish?!” Okay, I can’t even remember the fish’s name now, but I can assure you, as evidenced by the fact that I’m still writing about my gilled friend even years later, this was a pivotal moment.
This is the first time I remember humor again.
Granted it was dark (there’s a lot more of that in my life now), but it was there.
And it was from me.
I wasn’t smiling through someone else’s awkward attempt at making conversation with the mother whose child had died. I wasn’t making a breezy comment to try and get out of said conversation, or make someone else feel better about what had happened to me. I was in control of this one.
That’s when I knew that it was still there. A sense of humor. And maybe it could eventually lead to an ability to produce a spontaneous smile. Back then, I still didn’t want to smile most of the time, but it was reassuring to know that it was there, in some form. And I’d spend a very long time trying to figure out this new relationship with that smile again.
What I think is funny has changed.
What brings me joy has changed.
It has been a road of rediscovery.
Be kind to yourself on this road. It’s not one of consistency or constant improvement. There will always be ups and downs, but there will be progress through it all. I believe that your joy is there – you just have to get to know it again. In its new state. I know, it sounds exhausting. But as we know, nothing in this grief process is exactly a breeze. But you got this.
In my free 5 Essentials Guide, I’ve outlined key principles to help you rediscover your joy that’s waiting in the wings. It can be frustrating in itself to not be able to just be joyful, or to be able to put your smile on autopilot like you once did. I know that you’ve got it in you and I know that this new you will do great things. Even if you don’t see it right now…I do.
5 Essentials to Rediscovering Your Joy After Loss
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