6 Things We Can Do to Move Through Grief

In May of 2017, my 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident. Though I had known grief before, it was in that moment that I met grief head-on in the most brutal way I ever had before. The loss of my handsome, compassionate, and talented son felt like a part of me was gone. The pain was brutal. Life would never be the same. 

In our lifetime we will all experience grief in one form or another. Each of us is unique, therefore each of our grief journeys will be different. Everyone’s timeline is different.  And grief is exhausting. Losing someone you love dearly can feel like you have been broken into a million pieces. 

People say they will never be the same person after their loved one has died. This is very true. Trying to reassemble the fragments can feel impossible. And even when all the pieces have been put back together, there are scars that remain. 

The amount of time it takes to process grief and find one’s footing again can vary. One person may feel the ability to move forward with life sooner, while someone else may experience raw pain for months or even years and find it hard to function. 

In any case, I have found that grief is a process that must be honored, and there’s no need to rush it along. Running from the grief does not make it go away. It will likely stay stuck in the body and manifest in other ways—anger, illness, fatigue. 

Moving through the grief, acknowledging it and working with it allows the grief to transform you, much like how the caterpillar is transformed while in the cocoon and the way heat transforms coal into diamonds. 

You need tender loving care while in the brutality of raw grief, or even in the dull ache of continuing grief. You must be your own advocate for healing. 

There is much you can do for yourself during this sacred time. Here are some ways to take care of yourself while you grieve:

1 – Feel your feelings

David Kessler, grief expert and author of many books including Finding Meaning, says that if you have a

thousand tears to shed you can’t stop at 400.” Holding in your emotions is detrimental to your health because the trauma will eventually show up somewhere else in your body. Give yourself permission to feel the sadness, the anger, or even the rage. Let the tears flow without concern for what others may think. These tears are healing.

Additionally, trying to get past the pain by not letting it out only masks it. There are no shortcuts. The grief is not going away. It needs to be acknowledged and allowed to flow. Taking whatever time is needed to grieve is essential for moving through the pain, and by doing so you are showing kindness and compassion to yourself, which is exactly what you need.

2 – Move 

Similarly, moving your body also allows grief to move through you. There are many ways to do this. Walking, especially through nature, is very healing. Feeling the earth beneath your feet, smelling a flower, touching a tree, or just gazing up at the magnificent sky can help you to feel grounded and calm. Putting on music you love and moving in any way your body needs to express itself is another. And if you feel enough strength to do so, jogging or going to the gym are also helpful activities.

A practice called Grief Yoga which uses movement, yoga, breath, and sound to release pain and suffering. This physical expression helps to keep the grief from getting stuck in your body. Paul Denniston, creator of Grief Yoga and author of Healing Through Yoga, says, “Running from grief actually means staying in the pain longer. When we stand in the pain, we can then begin to move through it.” 

3 – Rest

You don’t have to do all the things you used to do just yet. Stick to the absolute essentials like bills or taking care of children if you have them, but the rest of the housework can wait. Any kindness offered to you from friends or family can be very helpful. When people say, “Let me know what I can do to help you,” take them up on it! Let them take care of chores and errands that needs to be done while you nurture yourself. If possible, have someone help you with these jobs. 

You also don’t have to keep up with all the social engagements. You are grieving. You do not need to attend functions where you may feel you need to put on a happy face. And you don’t have to explain yourself. As David Kessler teaches, “No” is a complete sentence.  If you do decide to attend a social gathering for a short while, go ahead and give it a try, but feel free to leave if necessary.

4 – Read

If you are a reader, there are a plethora of books on grief. Some are written by experts in the field, others by people who have lost a loved one and share their journeys with others who now find themselves on this same pathway in life. Some offer spiritual guidance if that is meaningful to you. Some discuss continued connections with their loved one in spirit. These books can validate your feelings and help you to know that grief is a normal part of life. They can help you to cope and find hope.

And if books don’t appeal to you, there are also countless videos on the internet and podcasts related to grief at your fingertips. Little by little you can gather information and insight into how to navigate this difficult path. 

5 - Find your tribe  

It is easy to feel alone in grief, to feel that no one really understands your pain. So often well-meaning people will offer platitudes such as, “Well at least he lived a long life,” or, “At least you have more children (besides the one you lost),” or, “At least he didn’t suffer too long.” All these indicate a disconnect to how you really feel.

Grief communities can be found through hospitals, therapists, churches, and simply by searching online. By joining a grief support community, you are likely to find people who understand your pain because of the mutual experiences of loss. There is freedom to express your sadness without having to censor it, minimize it, or pretend you’re better now. 

Similarly, various online social media platforms provide grief communities. These are wonderful places to go where you can freely post as many pictures of your loved one as you like without anyone suggesting you’re overdoing it. Keeping his or her memory alive maintains a feeling of connection with them.

These people will not tell you that you need to get over it. Here, you can find ears that won’t grow tired of listening to how you feel, and your own compassion grows as you witness the grief of others. You find you are not alone.

6 - Trust yourself 

Advice will come from all sides. It is well intentioned. People want you to feel better because it makes them feel better. No one likes to see someone they care about suffer.  

But grieving does not need to be fixed. It needs to be expressed. When all is said and done, you know what is best for you. Listen to your body and listen to your heart. Take what feels right to you and let go of the rest.

Grieving is a lifelong journey. However, the pain can eventually soften. The most difficult days can become less frequent. As grief shifts and changes it may even bring us to a place of transformation and renewal. 

We will always miss our loved ones who have passed from this earth. The amount of missing is equal to the amount of love, and it will always be there, safely secured within our hearts. 

But grief does not have to keep us from living our lives. If we choose to do the work of honoring our grief, looking it in the eye and working through it, we can find a way to find joy again, even in the little things. 

As you take care of yourself during this challenging time, you will find that it’s possible to live a meaningful life again, and in doing so you honor your loved one.

Walking with Grief

It had been only six weeks since my 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident. That amazing young drummer who charmed most anyone he met with his good looks and kind personality, the one with the sparkle in his eyes that hinted at a bit of mischief, the one people were drawn to by his charismatic personality, the one who never in 24 years hesitated to hug his mom in front of his friends and audibly tell her he loved her. 

Yeah, that one. His physical presence was now gone, and though my raw grief enveloped me, my face was vaguely stoic. Here I sat at a little outdoor café with my sister, Chris, who had carried me along so far to this point with such love and compassion, whose healing touch had soothed me as she came to my house each evening to provide me with a gentle acupressure treatment. With us was one of her friends, Elena, who I knew casually. 

Summer break had just begun. I had managed somehow to close up my third-grade classroom just weeks after Eric’s passing. My sister and Elena were also teachers, and Chris had invited me to join them for lunch. Elena, whose only son had also been a friend of Eric’s, was genuinely sorry for this unimaginable tragedy and for all I had been going through. As we slowly ate our salads and sandwiches, we briefly discussed this profound loss rather than avoid the elephant in the room, and for this I was very grateful. 

Then, in an attempt to shift the conversation in a new direction, Elena asked the usual question teachers asked each other in the middle of June, “So what are your plans for the summer?” 

A very slight pause. Still moving a bit on automatic, still numb from all that had occurred, my answer was short and quick. 

“Grieving.” 

I didn’t even have to think about it. It just came out.  Instinctively something inside of me knew that this summer was not about shopping, or beach trips, or catching up with friends, or pre-planning for the Fall school session. The world as I knew it had stopped, and I had something to do. It was very simple. Grieve. 

I know that people don’t think of it this way. They think that grieving is something that will float in and out while you keep going with life. This is true to some degree because life’s demands must be taken care of.

But grieving is a very real and necessary action after such a major loss. Grieving is indeed a part of the healing process. For some there is a tendency to want to not feel the pain and instead they may make themselves very busy or turn to some kind of substance to help ease that pain. It is understandable to want to avoid this brutal pain. 

Nevertheless, grief will continue to pursue you, will make itself known when you least expect it. That’s why it’s often referred to as grief work. And if you don’t do the work, you won’t get through the grieving to the other side where life can be lived again. The grieving will never stop, of course, in the sense that it will always remain tucked inside your heart somewhere and still may show itself from time to time. You will always miss your beloved. However, when the grief is faced and worked with, it will begin to soften, the turbulent waves will ease, and out of the darkness, the light can begin to shine again.

Grief expert, David Kessler, says that if you have  one thousand tears to shed, you cannot stop at number 399. Those other 601 tears will stay built up inside of you, trying to burst through. He also uses the analogy of a herd of buffalo. Upon becoming aware of an oncoming storm, the buffalo will instinctively choose to head straight into the storm, facing it and moving through it and beyond it, instead of running from it. They look it square in the eye and as they boldly encounter it, they are able to grapple with it and then move into a place of peace much more quickly than if they kept running away from the inevitable. By running in the other direction, the storm will only continue to chase. 

Grief is also a teacher. We come to understand what really matters in life. We come to prioritize what how we spend our days. We learn to have compassion for others who have suffered unfathomable losses. We learn that when all the said and done, it is the love that will remain. 

Love. When we love greatly, we grieve greatly. And I have decided that that is okay. I will take all the love I have for my son and allow it to express itself as grief in my earlier days and weeks and even years with the hope and the knowing that, eventually, that love can express itself as joy once again. 

I had the luxury of having about 6 weeks to do nothing but grieve before I had to start thinking about and planning for the school year again. Not everyone can do this, though some take as much time off as possible. And if that’s not possible, some devote time each day specifically for grieving. That may be talking to your loved one in spirit, journaling, going through photos, listening to music — whatever feels right for them — allowing the healing tears to flow. This is how we honor our grief. In doing so, we also honor our loved one.

So, yes, stating that my plans for the next six weeks are to grieve is a perfectly acceptable answer. Grief is exhausting. Self-care and self-compassion are essential. Choosing to stay in the pain forever is not proof of my love for Eric. My love for my son is not going anywhere and can be expressed in my willingness to keep living. That love will always be right here while I continue to navigate life with him by my side.

(This article of mine was first published by the Open to Hope Foundation)

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

Looking for Meaning

 

Pain and suffering. We each experience these in some way in our own lives. We see it right up close, in our faces, and that’s hard to escape. 

If we choose, we may look around and see that this pain and suffering exists around us as well. A friend recently asked me why there was so much pain in this world. I cannot pretend to even begin to know how to provide any kind of answer to that one. I might attempt to philosophize my way through, supported by the many books and talks by people who have spent much time on this subject. All I know for sure is that it is part of this human life. We won't escape it. 

Not only is it all around us, but we also experience past trauma through our ancestors. I recall all the suffering my own grandparents went through, escaping their little town of Tomarza in the 1920s during the Armenian Genocide, the horror, the brutality, the loss of so many family members. After a few years of never knowing if their last day was today they made their way here to the United States and found a new life. It was still challenging, but they were able to rebuild their lives. 

This torment my ancestors experienced does not end with them. My parents suffered their own demons, and their deep inescapable pain was evident in our household when my siblings and I were growing up. We experienced the fallout from their past trauma. It all remains hidden deep in our bones.

And life is life. My grandparents lost children, my parents lost a son, and I lost a son. I joined a support group and have met hundreds of other parents who have also lost children. I am not the only one. We all suffer loss.

There is grief in loss, the loss of someone you love deeply. But loss takes many forms. Not only do we grieve our loved ones, our family members, our parents, our siblings, our children, our friends, but even if they are still here on earth and want nothing more to do with us, we grieve that estrangement. We also grieve job losses and pet losses and maybe even the loss of a home. Sometimes we may experience all of these at once and it feels like the world is crumbling around us. Where do we find that strength to go on? Wouldn’t it be easier to just give it all up?

I have gained a sip of wisdom from books I have read by others in history who experienced profound loss and still managed to see the good somewhere in this life. In Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl survives the horrors of the Holocaust. In some miraculous way, he finds the fortitude and the wisdom deep within himself to say, “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you respond to the situation.” Your freedom to choose. Those are powerful words.

Etty Hillesum is the author of An Interrupted Life, a diary that chronicles the last couple years of her life before and during the time when she was summoned to Westerbork, a stopping point before her final destination of Auschwitz. Again, she exhibits a strength that is understandably rare for most anyone, a wisdom and a deep devotion to give and love and help and serve despite living within the most dire circumstances. Reading her book brought me to tears and even shocked me with her ability to state, “Despite everything, life is full of beauty and meaning.” Where does that come from?

I believe each one of us has that strength somewhere embedded deep inside. But it is not easily accessible, only retrievable in the silence, in the moments of contemplation, and, dare I say, of surrender. In the society and world we’ve grown up in, surrender is not a word we like to use. To most, surrender means giving up, letting go of our strength, and is an indication of weakness. But I don’t mean surrendering the necessary work against the crimes committed on humanity. This is an important effort as modeled by Martin Luther King Jr, Nelson Mandela and the like. 

I do believe there is another perspective from which we can view surrender. By letting go, by choosing to surrender the pain and the suffering and the anger and the vengeance, we actually make room for something else to come in. We can then create the space for the beauty and the love to come in and find us. I think that’s what Frankl and Hillesum were able to do.

And so I look up to them. I learn from them. I ponder who they were and what they gave to this world. I feel the ripple effects that continue to flow from their magnificence, from their strength and surrender. I search for the words and examples of others like them, whether from the past or even still here today in this world. I hope to follow in those footsteps when it seems the world is crashing down around me, when I’m feeling the sting from one loss or another.

I've said it before and I’ll say it again… We are here to love. We were never promised a rose garden (as an old song tells us). Life is not meant to be perfect. It is not meant to be all good, and when things fall apart it doesn’t mean we’ve done anything wrong. This is as it is. 

What do we do with that? That’s the question. Will we lose hope? Or become beacons of hope. Will the tiny steps we might eke out each day make a difference? Steps in the direction of kindness and peace, steps of serving someone else in a situation like ours or maybe even worse? That’s where I like to focus. 

Because then, somehow, I do feel the meaning of it all. Somewhere hidden in what sometimes looks like a pile of slop is meaning. And it takes nothing more than getting up each day and setting the intention to love and offer kindness, to be helpful. It is there. Deep within. And if you can find it within, you will find it around you as well.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

Unlearning

(Disclaimer – the word God is used multiple times. Feel free to substitute as needed.)

I don’t know how to explain what God is. I don’t even believe it’s possible to explain who God is (or whatever name you may use for this magnificent power). 

But I do know what God is not. God is not an old man in the sky sitting on a throne. God is not angry or vengeful. Or unforgiving. God is not male, or even female for that matter; God might be both or God might be neither. God is not someone or something that either grants our wishes/prayers or denies them. The above describes such a small God. So limited. So manufactured. But that is the God that is so often advertised. No wonder so many people are atheists. 

I used to believe in this God because that’s what I was taught - a long, long time ago. As time went on, I began to let go of some of these ideas due to my participation in healthier religious readings and discussions. But seven years ago, when I experienced profound suffering after my youngest child passed away, I had to rethink all of this, because it felt like bullshit.

I searched. And searched. I read books. I listened to people speak on death, and life, and love, and suffering, and afterlife, and God. I sifted through all of it. I tossed what did not resonate in my heart as truth, and gently held and cradled that which did resonate. I sat in silence with myself. I pondered and contemplated.

Little by little, something deep within myself began to emerge. A truth. A light. Something immense. Expansive. Uncontainable. And I began to realize that, in this deepest part of me, was God.

I discovered that God is in all things, in all people. That is why God is always with us in every situation good or bad. Joyful or painful. I know that God is the Creator of this incredible, indescribably beautiful Earth and universe. And I have learned that He/She is the Source of all Love. And what is greater than unconditional love? 

Those small acts of kindness you may witness each day – holding a door for someone, letting a car in front of you on the road, offering a bottle of water to a stranger who appears to be in distress, even offering a genuine smile – that’s where God is. Right there. So easy to miss. 

I have come to understand that God protects us from nothing but sustains us in all things. For we are here for all of it. Suffering, I’ve learned, is part of life. And it is also a teacher. Through great suffering can come great transformation. We can become compassionate to the suffering of others. We are here to grow our capacity to love. Everyone. Even our enemies.

Love our enemies? Whoa. There it is. Tallest order I know of. But I do get it now. 

Forgiveness, I have found, is great love. It’s the acknowledgement that deep down inside each of us, where we never really look, we are actually all the same, and not one of us is perfect. We all make mistakes. We all fail, and sometimes we fail big time. We do something that feels unforgivable, and we may hate ourselves for it. Then someone hurts us in a way that also feels unforgivable. And here we are all sitting around, wallowing in our shittiness.

Did you ever ask for forgiveness? Have you ever been forgiven for a grave injustice? Do you remember how it felt? To be forgiven? A huge weight lifted off your soul. Immense gratitude to the forgiver. Didn’t that feel kind of like…love? 

And imagine offering that to someone else. For fucking up. Big time. Or even small time. Either way…how very…

Loving.

That’s God in action. Through you. Through me. Through each of us. No matter how imperfect we are.

This God is so much bigger than that small God I learned about, that God that was stuffed into a little box the size of a pea representing the small-mindedness of human understanding. I needed to unlearn that God. Because the God I now know of and see all around me is beyond any possible understanding. 

God is the magnificence of the ocean, the breathtaking view of the sunset, the peace and serenity of the face of a sleeping infant, the beauty in the delicate petals of a rose, the endless expanse of a star-filled night. Yet words fall short. God is more amazing than we can comprehend, describe or explain. God is awesome. Truly awe-some.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

The Transformative Power of Grief

We all have an idea of what life should look like. We all have a plan for how things should go. And why wouldn’t we? We are creative beings and we put in a lot of hard work building our lives. From a very young age we begin to construct an outline of what will unfold before us on our paths. In my case, my plan included college, career, marriage, a home, children, and grandchildren.

So, what do we do with the excruciating loss of a loved one? Nowhere to be found in that beautiful picture I painted of my life was the sudden passing away of my son as the result of a car accident seven years ago, my youngest of four wonderful children. That carefully crafted image of what I was building my life to be was shattered. What I had envisioned for the future was no longer possible. 

Richard Rohr, ecumenical teacher and author, says that two of the most powerfully transformative experiences in our lives are great love and great suffering.  When I first read these words of his a few years back, they immediately resonated with me. From what I had experienced, this rang as truth.

Yet just today, listening to a podcast, I heard writer and speaker Paula D’Arcy tell about losing both her young child and her husband in an instant during a car accident when she was 27. She was also 3 months pregnant at the time. Incomprehensible. The world as she knew it had vanished. She explained that during the brutal pain of this loss, she felt the great love and great suffering that Rohr describes occur at the same time. She said that this is how it is with the grief we experience when a loved one dies. Our love and our suffering become one.

A new understanding reverberated in my heart when I heard this. Yes. Yes indeed. Through my experiences sitting with and hearing from hundreds of parents who have a child in spirit, as I watched their love for their child spill out through the tears running down their faces, I could see that the immense love they have for their children, as the unbearable suffering they felt were one and the same. The love and suffering were integrated. And, when I consider my own loss, the physical loss of Eric, I have come to understand that this suffering is absolutely transformational, for we will never be the same. 

But what do we do with this transformation? It is natural to ask why - why did this happen?  There will never be a satisfactory answer to that question. But maybe instead of asking “why,” we can ask “what.” If I will never be the same, what now? What do I do with these broken pieces of my dream? What do I do with this transformational shift? 

This grief is precious. I recently had the honor of attending a play that centered around the theme of grief. In The Rhythm of Mourning, performed by Bethesda Repertory Theatre based in Los Angeles, we see the main character, The Woman, wrestle with all the parts of her psyche that run amok as she is consumed by grief after the death of her brother – Innocence, Anger, Bargaining, Denial, Hope, Depression, Anxiety, Shame, and The Void. The Woman faces each facet of her pain, converses with each, argues with each, and ultimately participates in a beautiful dance with each. And from that acknowledgement of each part of herself, comes healing. She says, “I cherish this sadness I have. This exquisite grief, it’s mine, and the most precious thing I posses.” She sees the treasure in her grief. She is transformed.

The journey is a mysterious one. There is no way to know what’s ahead. This movement through all the emotions of grief — it’s all part of the journey. There is no way to anticipate how this new road will manifest. In my experience, I surrendered. I allowed all of it to express and move through me. I couldn’t pretend the grief was not there. It was. It still is. And it does what it’s there to do, which is not obvious at first. It’s there to heal. 

But only if you allow it, as impossible as that may seem. D’Arcy says, “The stumbling stone is the seed for growth. Rather than stay the same, allow yourself to grow.” It won’t happen by itself. You need to give yourself permission to do so, permission to grow and heal. When you are catapulted towards transformation, you have the opportunity to become more.  Let it teach you. 

Grief taught me to look around at others who have gone through this same loss. And when I did, I saw myself in others, and I saw them in me. We were connected by our pain, by this experience that is part of life. I saw that I was not alone. I saw the immense beauty in how someone else with a hole in her heart the size of her child could see me and reach a hand out to me to help lift me up. And then, when my legs felt a bit steadier, I was able to do the same for someone else. It’s the pebble tossed into the water that creates that amazing ripple effect. It is exquisite. And I allowed myself to be part of it. 

I express this sentiment in my book A Bird Called Wisdom…

If this is what has happened

Then let me take it and run with it

Let me take all of it

And have it turn me into

The very best self

I can be

If somehow

I am to live this life

As a mother with one child

On the Other Side

Then rather than let it break me

Let it build me and expand me

Let it take the broken parts of me

And allow the light inside of me

My truest self

To shine through

Bright and bold

Let it teach me

All that I came here to learn

To honor my son

I will do this

To honor my mother and grandmother before me

Whose children also passed before them

I will do this

I will do this with my son on my left

My angels on my right

My ancestors behind me

Mother Earth below me

And God above me

Show me

Teach me

Guide me

I prevail.

Whatever your loss, may your pain transform you into the very best of you. May you find a way, deep inside of you, to step over bitterness and despair, and find the steady ground of hope, of love, and of connection with those on this same path. It is there for you, if you will allow it.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

A Reconciliation Between Worlds

Words left unsaid. This is one of the hardest things people struggle with after the death of a loved one. I have heard it over and over again while sitting with support groups during these last six years after my son’s transition to spirit. So much guilt, so much regret, over what was said or unsaid, be it I love you, or I’m sorry, or I forgive you, or even goodbye.

Death is so final. Well, death of the body, that is. Certainly, as humans, we ache over the huge loss of physical connection, of the opportunity to hug the one you love so dearly, to see their face light up with a beautiful smile, or hear their voice or the sound of their laughter. Thank goodness for photos. They are helpful to a point. I have spent hours just looking at my son’s face in the multitude of photos left behind, taking in his eyes, his smile, trying to hold on to every nuance. It can almost feel like I am with him again. But not quite. Better than nothing, I say.

But to speak to him, ask him questions, and hear the answers—oh, so much I would ask if I could! I know you might think I’m nuts, but I have continued to speak to my son since his passing. And if I’m still enough and quiet enough and have the patience to wait…I feel I can hear him answer me.

Truth is, I completely believe that he hears me. I have come to a greater understanding of how our loved ones in spirit are still here, albeit in a form that our five senses do not pick up. Quantum physics can confirm that (and no, I am no expert as the subject is hugely complex and my understanding merely scratches the surface). But even if I hadn’t read about or heard many talks on this field of study, my own heart tells me so. You’d be surprised what your heart knows if you’d just allow it to lead you.

My father was a troubled man, and not easy to grow up with. Despite his outward appearance—a man who owned his own attorney service (a necessary business in the 50s and 60s that is obsolete today), dressed five days a week in a suit and tie, and was handsome and charming to many who knew him outside of our family of seven—he was often angry and mean to us. I won’t go into detail about the verbal and emotional abuse I and my siblings (and mother) withstood, but let’s just say that it was quite difficult.  

Not to say there weren’t some good times with my dad.  The memories of him joining us in our 2-foot Doughboy pool in the backyard were hilarious, and the night drives through neighborhoods lit up with Christmas lights were magical. He was proud of our educational accomplishments and encouraged our lessons in music and dance. And in return I admired his determination to go back to college and earn his degree when he was in his 60s.

But it took me years to realize I really wasn’t stupid, I really wasn’t worthless, and I really was deserving of love. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who has struggled with those kinds of self-esteem issues.

Though I had spent many years as a teenager and young adult hating my father, that sentiment eventually began to shift. And after he died in 2003, as I matured and developed a larger perspective of life, I came to the realization that my father must have suffered abuse as a child himself, abuse that he would never have told us about because he was from a generation and religious tradition that demanded you “Honor your father and mother.” He strongly believed that if he were to tell us they were less than perfect he would be disrespecting them. That discussion was never going to occur.

I believe that when people are hurt, they hurt others. I came to realize that my dad had done the best he could with all the pain that likely had been inflicted on him. I know that deep down, he truly loved us. Though he is now gone, I have found myself able to forgive him, something I could never have considered years ago. And as time went by, when I thought about him, I told him so.

A couple years ago I had a dream with my father. I was in a room with other people, but then left that room through a door. The small room I entered was all white, and my father was in it.  He wore a white t-shirt and white pants. He had his back to me and was facing a white chest of drawers that was about five feet high and stood against one of the white walls. He was trying to stand a piece of paper atop the dresser and against the wall. It was the only thing in the room that had some color. It was about an 8 ½ x 11 sized sheet, and my dad was having trouble making it stand up. It kept falling over, and he would try again. 

After a minute or so of that, I softly said, “That’s frustrating, isn’t it?” He then turned around and looked at me. I was immediately drawn to his eyes which held such sadness and remorse. There was pain there, not only for his own suffering, but especially for the suffering he caused me and my siblings. I felt only compassion and love for him. 

He did not speak—out loud, that is. There were no words for my ears to hear. But there were words for my heart to hear. And loud and clear I heard, “I’m sorry.”

I went up to him and gently hugged him. As he hugged me back, I said, “I love you, Dad.” And the dream ended.

Well, if that isn’t an apology and offering of forgiveness between worlds, I don’t know what is. The reconciliation had occurred. Not before my father died, but after.

When I woke up, I remained suspended in that connection beyond the veil for a little while. It was very real. It had a deep impact on me. And even as I write this, I strongly feel that love, that forgiveness, that eternal connection with my dad. 

It is never too late to tell your loved one who has passed to the next world you are sorry, or you forgive them, or you love them. They hear you. They are with you. It is only our limited senses that keep us from that awareness. 

That was how I survived those first brutal months after my son Eric's transition. When I felt the merciless pain of missing him, I told him I loved him. I told him all the time. I still do. And I have never doubted he could hear me.

And sometimes, when I sit very still, maybe outdoors under the magnificent pine tree in our front yard, feeling the cool breeze blow through my hair and kiss my face, I believe I can hear him tell me, “I love you too, Mom.”

My grief therapist told me after Eric's passing that I would now have a new relationship with him. I didn't get it at first, though I was open to it.

But I do see that now. Not only with my son, but with my father as well. The relationship continues. All that was left unsaid can now be said...I forgive you, I love you. Thank you.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

Allowing the Shift

It’s still there. The spot where the accident occurred. So close to home. I still drive by it a couple times a month on my way to this or that, running errands of one sort or another. 

More than six years have gone by since my 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident driving home late one night after having spent the evening out with co-workers from his new job. The marks remain—two tire tracks forming a 40 to 50-foot arc across the cement embankment on the east side of a busy road, halting abruptly at the bridge that constitutes the overpass for railroad tracks. Horrific, if you let yourself think about it. But for reasons that I cannot rationalize, my perception of that landmark has sure changed. 

At first, it only represented pain. Just two days after Eric’s passing, I elected to go visit the scene of my son’s passing, which I had avoided until that moment. It was Mother’s Day, 2017, and as I stood in our home filled to the brim with mourners and flowers, casseroles and pastries, I texted my husband whom I could not locate in the house. He said he was at the accident site. I told him I’d be right there, and despite my surviving kids’ objections—after all it was Mother’s Day—I headed over, driven by my eldest son, Nick.

While Nick waited (he could not bring himself to look at the location where his brother took his last breath), I walked from the car which was parked a block over, as there was no way to park on the busy street itself. Accompanied by my future son-in-law, I walked down the incline of the street on a very narrow strip of sidewalk, the embankment a sharply inclined plane on my right like a wall, and immediately noted the tire marks. My husband was there, crying, his hands tracing the black marks from where the car had first made contact with the embankment after driving off the street. I understood that by touching those marks, Joey was able to connect to Eric’s last few seconds on Earth. It was heart wrenching, yet in my raw grief, I did not cry. I was still in some sort of non-reality, a fog.

I’m not sure how long we stood there. Time absolutely stood still. Somehow, I continued to breathe. I looked up into the blackness of the dark night sky. I felt the eternal vastness of the universe. I looked around and wondered what might have been the very last thing Eric saw. I breathed. I pondered. This was the place where Eric’s life had ended. But more than that, I knew in my heart that this was the place where Eric’s new life had begun.

That must have been what I hung onto…where Eric’s new life had begun. Already, there was a shift in what would normally have been nothing but devastation. 

Oh, those tread marks—a constant reference to the day that changed our lives forever. Various people commented on how upsetting it was to still see them there. A couple of exasperated friends made calls to the city demanding someone paint over them. What were they waiting for? Get rid of that eyesore, that reminder of such a huge loss! 

Eventually the city did paint over them. Yet, there was still a hint of the tracks which showed through the paint. Still there! Persistent. Almost as if Eric was making sure he would not be forgotten. No worries there, son, you will never be forgotten. That’s out of the question.

For the first few months after the accident, in my deepest grief, I did avoid the spot. I found alternate routes. But then I started letting myself drive by. I’d turn my head each time to see it, the arc, the path that led to an end, yet also to a new beginning of something beyond my full comprehension. For those few moments that I allowed my eyes to rest on that painful truth, time stood still. There was a heaviness in my heart, a stillness in my being, yet also a surprising connection to something more, something indescribable. Weird, but somehow driving by brought me a feeling of closeness to my son, like I could feel his energy in the car with me, maybe sitting next to me and smiling at me as if to say, “I’m with ya, mom.”

Then—and I don’t know when or how this began—not only did Joe and I stop avoiding that section of that busy road, but eventually we started saying hi to Eric as we drove by. It surprised me a bit the first time we passed by when Joey looked over to the faint tire marks, waved, and said, “Hi Erico.” I was bewildered not only because he said it, but also because his doing so actually felt good to me.  And by the next time we cruised by, I chimed in on the hello.  We smiled. There was an unexpected lightness in our unconventional connection with our son. 

Was that wrong of us? Did the fact that we weren’t spilling tears mean we’d lost our love for our son-in-spirit? Were we being disrespectful? 

Hell no. Like a mama bear defends her offspring, I will always defend my eternal love for my little cub. I know of some grieving parents who would be appalled by this. They would find this disloyal. But there is no part of me that feels even an ounce of disloyalty. I miss my son with every ounce of my being. What I would give to see him again, hug him again, and laugh with him again. But I did shock the hell out of myself recently when I drove by and didn’t realize till I had passed the landmark that I actually forgot to look over and say hello! What?? I felt a little bad and quickly uttered, “Sorry Eric,” to the air around me. And then I laughed. Shoot, too many unnecessary things on my mind that day. But disloyal? Not even. My journey had simply shifted.

The journey. Allow it to shift.

Grief expert, David Kessler, says there is no right way or wrong way to grieve. Just your way. Your grief is your grief. What you choose to do with it is your business. How you choose to live this journey is up to you. I can’t tell you how to do it, and you can’t tell me. 

Everyone reading this has gone through grief, loss, major challenges, gut wrenching experiences. How do you put those feelings into words? How can you get others to really understand how you feel or why you do what you do? 

You can’t. No one can truly get your experience. I can’t fully comprehend someone else’s pain, and they can't fully comprehend mind. That’s okay. We don’t have to understand why people choose to do what they do. Just witness, support, and allow them to be where they are. 

Now, some six years later, I have made peace with that stretch of road. Not everyone who knew Eric has, and I completely respect that. Whether or not they do or ever will is none of my business. If they do, it will be in their own time. Besides, Eric drove up and down that road countless times for happy reasons—on his way to visit friends or catch the freeway to the beach or (borrowing the lingo of the day) to a sick music event. I like to think of those times.

On that saddest of all Mother’s Days back in 2017, as I stared up into the awesome and endless star-filled night sky, I did get a glimpse of something beautiful and mystical, a sense of an alternate meaning for this spot: where Eric’s new life began. I’ll hang onto that. It will carry me through until that day when it’s time for Eric to meet me and take me to where my new life begins.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.)