Holidays can be heartbreaking if you have experienced loss.
But the truth is, and what I really wish that more people knew, is that the holidays are not really much different than any other time of year. When we live with grief, we courageously live and grow with it—we carry that grief every day of the year. Grief takes up permanent residence in the red, velvety, four room cabins of our hearts. Grief is carried deep in our chest, encased in a cage of ivory bones, and tended to by our brave spirits.
In our modern and sanitized society, we tend to treat grief like a game of Whack-a-mole. If you haven’t had the pleasure of growing up in the Jersey Shore, with splinters on your feet from deteriorating boardwalk wood, and a permanently peeling sunburnt nose, you might not know this obnoxious game.
Shove it down.
It’s how we handle things.
And that is the thing about grief. If we don’t live with it, grow with it, and acknowledge it daily, it pops up in the most unexpected places. It pops up when we are decorating our tree, or lighting a holiday candle. It pops up with a vengeance on a Sunday morning as we sit with our coffee. It pops up when we “should” be happy, and brings with it not only sadness, but a sense of fear and anxiety.
But, when we allow ourselves to carry grief, to hold it, to feel it deeply—it can’t pop up and startle us anymore. It can’t scare us, or destroy us out of nowhere, and we no longer have to fight it down. It no longer can show up out of the clear blue sky and choke us, and instead, it can breathe with us. It is no longer a menace, but rather a companion that we can learn to live with.
Don’t get me wrong, carrying grief not easy. Even still, it must be carried, and not smacked down or shoved away.
Oh, hello grief. Yes, you are here. No, you are not too heavy for me. I can carry you. Yes, you are a little rough and pointy, but I got ya. Even though you are not preoccupying my thoughts, you are with me.
Grief is carried on my body like a scar. A mark of a deep trauma, but one that was not strong enough to stop me from living.
Mostly, grief is a heartbeat. It goes 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, without me even thinking about it. It isn’t ’til I slow down that I hear it. I feel the vibration, deep in my chest. A steady drum, whispering “I’m here. I’m here.” Whether or not I choose to acknowledge it, grief beats a pattern that is both a triumphant victory march, and a melancholic rhythm, every day.
This holiday season, tie your scarf around your neck, brave the cold, zip up your parka like a suit of armor against the elements, and take your grief with you like a small stone in your pocket—knowing you’re not alone.
And the heart beats, aches, and breaks.
And beats some more.
Author: Logan Kinney
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