Category Archives for "Grief"

Mothers Day is messy for me, a different kind of wonderful-hard-precious-messy every year.

I know I have loss issues. They muddy up just about everything I do, in a really wild and beautiful way that I’d never wish away. Grief and the missing of a piece of my heart means that my heart hears softer and feels deeper and sees brighter than it did before it fractured and mended back together. It beats stronger in my chest now that it did then. 

Since I sent part of myself to heaven - my tiny baby who waits for me there - there are some events, some seasons, some stories, that hold a little more space and weight. 

I am late to the Ahmaud Arbury party, and the Covid party, and the politics party too, and just about every other touchy confusing heartbreaking party out there; admittedly because it gets real messy in my mind and heart.  I haven’t until this moment dipped my toe in the political/social commentary water because I was raised to know that’s an invitation for a fist fight (and in my modern adult life, a total internet assassination). 

Sadly, most of these issues aren’t political at all, and it exhausts and confounds me to no end that we force them into being political.   Because issues are about people - and people are sacred. But the politic ship is messy and broken and angry and riddled with agendas – and to an average American woman (me) it feels like we're raising NO ONE up to adjust the sails.  I know those good leaders are out there. We just can’t seem to get them into enough places of leadership that make an impact.    

Mothers losing their children isn’t about politics. 

Mothers losing their children is a siren wailing that our humanity is bleeding. 

I don’t want to be a better liberal or conservative, or a better Political Party Member.  I want to be a BETTER HUMAN BEING.  I want to be a person in the world who sees the lost and the last and the least of these precious people – the little people.  Children who need adults for help.  The adults who need other adults to speak up and make waves.

I know it’s possible to love God and simultaneously hate him for breaking your heart.  Just like it is possible to love people and simultaneously hate them for breaking the world at the same time too. Not the kind of hate that embitters you towards God or towards people… the kind of holy rage that boils up inside you and blinds your eyes with tears until you turn it into fuel to get your boots on the ground and do something about it. 

I am just one person.  And it all feels so big.  

What can I do?

Our friend Katie marches for babies.  I can’t quite do that yet, I don’t know why and can’t even really explain.  My muddy loss garbage makes it hard.  But she marches and we write checks.  It’s what we can do. 

I can ask hard questions of myself and press on my own uncomfortable thoughts.  I can stay in a place of humility and be willing to learn.  I can admit that maybe what I thought and did and said before was wrong, and start listening to people who are doing it right.  My polite silence was a chicken card I can’t keep playing anymore.

There are mothers losing their children every day.  To malnutrition, to poor care, to lack of money and education, to disease, to unhinged school shooters, to abuse, to racists, to bullies, to shame, to addiction.  I can’t understand it.  I will NEVER understand it.  So until I can get these blurry tears out of my eyes and figure out how to turn them into fuel to get my own boots on the ground, I will support the people who are already there. 

• I will work hard to earn and save money so we can write the check.
• I will socially distance and wear a mask so we don’t spread the virus.
• I will teach my children that every human being is created in the image of God, who loves us fiercely and unconditionally.  No matter how badly we muck things up down here.
• I will teach my children that we are only as happy as our saddest friend.  We are only as healthy as our sickest friend.  We are only as lucky as our unluckiest friend.
• I will teach my children that nothing, NOTHING, gives them cause to mistreat or abuse another human being.  They and they alone are accountable for their behavior and choices.
• I will teach my children that when we find ourselves saying “somebody should do something about that,” WE are that somebody.

There is a mother who lost her son, while he was out for a jog.  I don’t dare assume the arrogance to throw judgement or a political ax or an opinionated slant on this, because that statement is fact: There is a mother who lost her son, while he was out for a jog.

I am a mother who lost her son.

I am a mother who lost her son, a mother who is willing to move mountains if it means another mother never needs know the pain of burying a child. 

I don’t know what that mountain-moving looks like yet for me.  This is all new.  It took me more than 10 years to gain even a little understanding my own pain, so as that blurry-eyed grief is turning to fuel I’m staying curious and humble and quiet (well not really anymore I guess) and I’m looking toward the people who are doing it right.  The people with their battle-worn boots on the ground.

Mothers Day

It’s no coincidence tomorrow is Mothers Day. 

There are no warriors on earth like mothers.  A mother will fight to the death for her children.  A mother will fight to the death for anyone’s children.   Because there’s this strange part of motherhood that makes you love something outside your body more than you love your own self.  I love something outside my body on earth and in heaven too, and that double-realm split magnifies my love a thousand times, stronger every day.  

I have learned the best way we can love our children is to love ourselves first.  And that means getting our mental junk right.  It means getting our heart stuff right.  It means being able to look ourselves in the eye and know that what we’re saying on the outside matches who we are on the inside. 

Because whatever’s bubbling up inside of us is what our children learn. 

I want my children to learn courage. Selflessness. Awareness. Care. Action. Faith. Wisdom. Humility. Perspective. Confidence. 

I want my children to learn love.  No exceptions.

Because God is love, and God loves his children.

That’s all of us.  No exceptions.

Happy Mothers Day, loves.

HP,

J

Today I was supposed to be sharing a message with a community group for the National Day of Prayer. 

I am instead sipping coffee in my pajamas, and writing my speech anyway.  I have been pouting for 6 weeks (or is it 7?) but today seemed right to act like a grown-up and put pen to paper.  Or fingers to keys.

Back when the prayer breakfast event was confirmed, if you can believe it (and at this point a swarm of murder hornets has taught us that apparently anything is possible), I had determined the title of my message to be: When the Answer is No. 

The irony is not lost on me.

I have often shaken my fists at the sky since March, quite literally, most days, and spat words of frustration and complaint.  Even for a perpetually-positive person this season has been hard.  My little family and all the people we love have been blessed, safe, cozy, and content, but life moving forward still feels so uncertain, unsettling, uncomfortable, and admittedly full of mistakes.

Yet when I reflect on the most critical and pivotal seasons of my life, those seasons have all been uncertain, unsettling, uncomfortable, and full of mistakes.  And I keep making those mistakes over, and over, and over again, until I finally learn the lesson and get it right. 

Regarding the prayer breakfast event today, I was given a blank template to simply share my thoughts on prayer.  And as much as I envisioned I would present something dazzling and inspirational and uplifting, what kept coming back to me was the word NO.

Answers to prayer: yes, not yet, and no

I imagine we get lots of yeses to our prayers.  God says yes to our prayers for safety, health, comfort, provision, small wins, and sometimes even big giant victories that only God could pull off. 

We also get a lot of not-yets.  Our prayers full of dreams and good ideas, wonderful blessings that we’re simply not ready for.  When God says not yet maybe the timing isn’t right, we haven’t yet grown into the person ready to steward the gift, or maybe our prayer is the right idea but the wrong approach.  A yes to that prayer now would fall short of God’s master plan.  A not yet keeps us learning, stretching, trusting, and refining our minds and hearts.  Sometimes this not yet delay is confusing, and it hurts. 

But it never hurts as much as a no. 

Nothing has tested my faith and my understanding of God and myself as unrelentingly as my prayers which have been answered no. 

Perhaps some of those prayers are still not yets.  God willing, I still have much life left to live, and maybe some yeses will come, down the line once I’m ready to steward them well.

But as of this moment right now, two urgent, it’s-all-on-the-line prayers in my life have received an unequivocal, indisputable NO.  Capital N.  Capital O.  Period.  The end.  

The kind of no that changes your life forever.

When no changes the game

One of those prayers, actually a collection of millions of prayers, was for my infant son, who was born early and fought for every breath in his lungs for 17 days.  Our community wrapped their loving arms around us, and we all prayed together for his complete healing. 

But the answer was no.

Never in my lifelong Christian faith had it EVER occurred to me that such fervent faith would not be rewarded.  Not once did I wonder if my precious son wouldn’t live.  No doubt of God’s sovereignty and healing power ever entered my mind.  I believe in miracles, and in the God who designs them. 

But that miracle did not come to pass.

Our son died.  And I died a little, too.

Because what did it all mean now?  The prayers, the faith, the belief, the community, the scripture, the hope?  What happens when you give God everything you have, and it’s not enough?

In this broken mess of grief and rage, I had to learn that God is God, and I am not. 

God is God, and I am not

This platitude means nothing to a person in profound grief.  Only with the passing of time was I able to finally begin to comprehend it as a comforting truth. 

Because God is God, and I am not, he heard every single one of my prayers.  The polished and eager ones and the ones dripping in sorrow and hopelessness.

Because God is God, and I am not, he wept with me, knowing the excruciating pain of losing a son himself.

Because God is God, and I am not, he held me lovingly in the palm of his hand even as I screamed and cursed him for not saving my baby boy. 

Deal breaker

A prayer answered NO can feel like a deal-breaker.  And there is just so much “no” in the world right now.  Cancelled plans, threatened health, unstable finances, struggling relationships, and anxious futures.  No Tex-Mex dine-in.  No live church.  No hugs. 

Try telling an 8-year-old “NO, you can’t go out to the ice cream truck driving past the house.”

Or a ten-year-old “NO, you can’t hug your grandparents.” 

Or a toddler "NO, you can't have the scissors."

The scowling, bargaining, stomping, whining, and lingering pout are enough to push my mama feelings over the edge too.  I get it, kiddos.   

When God says no, maybe it feels cruel. 

It’s not because of anything you did or did not do. 

It’s not because God finds pleasure in disappointing you.  Or because you “deserved it.”

When God says no, it’s because he loves you SO MUCH that he’ll carry you through the most excruciating no along the path to an even more miraculous YES. 

A yes you couldn’t have imagined to pray for yourself, not in a million years.

Our adopted daughter was born just three days after our son’s original due date, in the same hospital room.  

Their stories are forever-entwined, a living, earthly and divine reminder that every heartbreaking no makes way for a humbling and glorious YES.  A walking promise that God will always give to us beauty for ashes.  

Learning from no

What no has turned your heart cold or calloused to God or to people?

What no have you been running from that still has truth to teach you?

What no is a gift in disguise, a letting go of things no longer serving you?

In this 2020 season of no, we have to ask ourselves: am I willing to make peace with this disappointment, allow it to teach me, shape me, refine me, and anchor my trust in the God who created me?

Am I willing to surrender to the idea that God is God, and I am not?

And do I have the audacity to believe that a future beyond my wildest imagination is still on the horizon, in the form of a yes I can’t yet see?

The power of prayer

I believe in the power of prayer.  I experience its comfort in pain or grief, in the repetition of scripture and holy promise.  I bear witness to its joy in celebration and praise, with a song on my lips and a lump in my throat.  I embrace prayer especially in confusion, anger, or fear, when the words are messy and hopelessly flawed. 

Mostly, I treasure prayer for the lifeline it is – a raw and honest, safe place to lay it all at the feet of the Lord.  All my joy, praise, confusion, anger, shame, pain, regret, grief, wonder, and love.  A place where I can admit I don’t have all the answers – or ANY answers at all.  Prayer is God’s gracious gift that allows us to come just as we are.  And absolutely contrary to the way of the world, communing in prayer with our Maker is most fulfilling when we take off our masks and superhero capes and filters.  No acting or pretending required.   

I was wrong

I have no remarkable words or routine in my prayer life.  Which doesn’t really sound great now that I’m “saying it” out loud. 

It’s just that I spent the first 26 years of my life praying perfect pristine prayers.  And it led me to a place where I assumed the answers would always be yes.

Yet in the darkest and most important moment of my life, the answer was NO.  

And it broke me.  That no fractured everything I thought I knew about God, prayer, myself, my faith, and my future. 

In the moment I couldn't understand.  But now I couldn’t be more grateful. 

Because all those things I thought I knew about God, prayer, myself, my faith, and future... I was wrong. 

Holy ground

God doesn’t reward perfection or poise.  He meets us right in the muck.  He’s in every tear that falls from our eyes and every gasping cry that escapes our lips. 

Through prayer, God invites us to tell the truth.  To him and to ourselves.  No matter how raw and ugly it feels. 

And as God answers our prayers one by one, he continues to weave the threads of our life into the masterpieces he’s designed them to be.  He needs not our help.  What he does require is our trust.  Our willingness.  Our hearts at the root of our authenticity. 

God’s mercies are new every morning, and his love endures forever.  I know this because I have tasted it.  My whole living life, your life is a testament to God's goodness and love.  He’s teaching us, with unrelenting patience for our flaws and unfathomable grace to forgive us until we get it right.  Over and over.  Again and again. 

He’s loving us closer to him as we transform into the marvelous creatures he planned us to be.  With every yes.  With every not yet. 

And perhaps even, especially when the answer is no.

HP,

J

I’ve packaged every single book myself, and there are still (just a very few) signed copies left.  We’ve sent them literally coast to coast, and one even went to Pensacola to someone I don’t know yet.  If that’s you, please know that nothing made me smile more than knowing one of these little books is headed to my happiest place on earth! (It’s where this whole crazy blog idea was birthed, too!)  Someday we’ll meet in that beautiful white sandy paradise. 

It’s bound to be a crazy week, no matter your line of work.  We have “grab-and-go” meals ready for literally every single night through Sunday.  If your schedule looks similar to ours, take an extra minute today to breathe, pray, focus, and hold on tight to what’s most important.  The other stuff clamoring for your attention is just a distraction from loving your people – and yourself- well.

HP,

J

If you're local and would like to pick up your book rather than have us ship it, enter code "PICKUP" at checkout and contact me to pick it up!  Just head to www.getjoy.shop to get started.  

My original working title for the book was Blue October until someone told me I have been living under a rock and Blue October is a band (they’re good!).   

We went to the zoo this past Saturday under that gorgeous blue October sky.  G’s softball tournament bracket blocked out the entire day and I had prepared myself that we might not get away.  Jack asked her if she wanted to stay to play or head on to the zoo.  She picked the zoo.  On "LJ Day," the answer is YES.  No matter what.  We would have reworked our plan if she wanted to stay and play.  But selfishly, I'm so grateful she didn't.  

I hope they always want to go to the zoo, even when they’re grown. 

(It all works out.  The tournament continued without her and they won the whole thing, and she got to see her teammates the next day at the party.  She was presented with the “Softball Fashionista” award – they love her crazy socks and quirky style.)

As anticipated, the simultaneous zoo and hospital reconstruction projects made it so that we can’t see the NICU anymore.  I freaked out about it last year when construction began, and it was sad this year too.  We know it’s there, and that’s enough.  It has to be enough now, anyway. 

I went back to the NICU one time, on the 5 year anniversary.  It was hard… traumatic, actually.  I really thought I was ready to take gifts to the staff and the families.  I did what I came to do and held it together until I left.  But the smells (tunnels, hand sanitizer, general smell of the wing) and sounds (elevators, monitors, reception phone) and visuals (aquarium, lighting, big double doors I can’t enter any longer) were too much to take in. 

I haven’t been back since. 

So now that I can’t even see that precious space from the outside anymore, it was painful to mark yet another passing season in this whole grief journey.  Things change.  And those changes can be just as hard as grief itself. 

I get a little paranoid sometimes that people must be just absolutely sick of hearing me talk about this stuff.  Like if I were listening to me, I’d be sick of it too. 

That is the crappiest part of this whole process.  Feeling bad about feeling bad about feeling bad.  And then feeling bad because you don’t feel bad anymore.  (What even is this cheap shot?!) 

Yet I have never once felt frustrated with someone “in the thick of it,” maybe because I know what it’s like to be there.  And ultimately, if people do feel frustrated with me, they’ve never let on, or they’ve just left me alone, or they quietly “unfollowed” me on social media.  I see you, Instagram.

We’ve had dreary days this week and I’m honestly grateful.  Sunshine in a slump is almost insult to injury.  G loves Halloween.  I hate it, all the creepy decorations and our weird cultural fascination with possessed clowns and demon children and the undead.  But because Halloween is important to her, it’s important to me, so we compromise on decorations.  I stalled as long as I could this year and finally took her shopping yesterday.  We decided on giant spider webs; I can handle that.  She asked if she could paint her pumpkin creepy and that’s fine too. 

She asked me in the car if I was tired.  She is so perceptive.  I just answered simply, yes.  Thank you for noticing, and thank you for asking.  She said, I can tell, Mommy.   I wanted to cry.  It felt good to just be honest with her, as much as was necessary with a 9 year old.  That moment was a good reminder for me that I do not have to be Super Sunshiny Sparkly Mom all the time.  Normal Mom or Tired Mom or even Sad Mom is still a good mom. 

99.9% of the time I can find the bright side, the spiritual lesson, the glass-half-full approach.  100% of the time I do choose hope – the knowledge that today can be better than yesterday, that God is working all things together for my good, and that we (all people) are capable of change and growth beyond our human strength. 

I’m self-caring this week, more than normal, and for me that looks like sleeping enough, cooking yummy food, lighting cozy candles, keeping my space clean, steering clear of social media, reading/listening to good edifying material, refusing to play the mind-bending “what if” game, choosing not to make any big knee-jerk decisions, staying faithful to writing and community, and not losing my patience with my people.  Some of those things are harder than others. 

Ironically, writing is usually my first go-to strategy to sort out the mess in my mind and heart.  I know I’m in a really rough patch when I want to run away even from that.  So this is me checking in today, with myself, and with everyone else who isn’t sick of hearing about it yet. 

Share love with people today, wherever you go.  Life, faith, relationships, they are hard and we are all just stumbling around down here trying to do it right.  Give grace.  Show compassion.  Grant patience.  Breathe peace.  Go out of your way to make something convenient for someone else.  Let someone go first in line.  Write a kind note.  Leave a thoughtful voicemail.  Add an extra mindful greeting in an email.  BE NICE.  Even to people who you feel don’t deserve it.

I guess what I’m hearing myself say here (ughhh writing works, dammit!) is that at my most vulnerable, I can still tolerate creepy Halloween, I can muscle through triggery memories, I can breathe and pray through the grief journey, but what I can’t stomach is unkindness.  Not even necessarily sent in my direction.  Unkindness in general.  I guess it’s because I know how desperately I crave that gentleness of spirit, especially in my weakest and most tender moments. 

I’m sure there’s a way to wrap this all in a nice moral-of-the-story bow, but I’m too tired for that today, and I am giving myself permission to enjoy the gifts of imperfection. 

Wherever you are on this cloudy day, be gentle, seek out kindness, and stay close to people who feel like sunlight.  They need us as much as we need them.

HP,

J <3

BOOK UPDATE:  I can't thank you enough for your thoughtful and generous outpouring of support for my book!  Joy Comes in the Mourning is edited, formatted, copyrighted, licensed, covered, and heading to print!  We'll be launching the whole thing the first week of December.  If you'd like to be part of the launch team, which includes easy things like reading the book ahead of time and writing an online review, getting the inside scoop, attending a launch party, and who doesn't love a tshirt?!, subscribe to Happy Mail Club and/or drop me a note at jessica@heartfullypresent.com.  

I’ve been walking around all day with a lump in my throat that’ll undoubtedly burst at the first “how are you?”

Our first son was born and died in October.  Tomorrow (today, by the time I post this on the blog) is his 10^th birthday.

There’s something about this double digit milestone, a decade, that feels unbelievable.  Meaning, I actually cannot believe this much time has passed, and even more, I cannot believe I have continued to find my way in the world.   

There is so much to say.  So much I could fill a book.

So I did.  I wrote a book. 

This book has been pursuing me patiently and quietly, mostly standing at a distance “pssst”-ing me every once in awhile.  It was pretty easy to shrug off, what with a business to run, and a family, and a ministry, and saving a marriage, and then having a new baby.  It listened to my excuses and respectfully retreated a few paces, leaving me to my life and all the pursuits that captivate my attention.

Within the past six months, however, it crept closer and closer until it finally wrapped its arms around me and whispered in my ear, “it’s time.” 

So I soaked in the summer sunshine in a beautiful resort pool on my birthday and cried into my cocktail.  I had run out of excuses.  And truthfully, I had run out of steam. 

It is exhausting to keep running away from something you know you are supposed to be doing.   Whether it’s God, or a ministry, or mending a relationship, at some point you will collapse from the sheer weariness of stubborn disobedience and surrender to its persistent voice.   

This book is a ten-year reflection of grief, love, faith, and every real and raw step of the path my life has taken since the birth and death of our son.  I did not hold anything back.  Once I started writing, it tumbled out head over heels.  It felt easy and impossible to write all at the same time.  It stretched me to articulate some thoughts that until now have lived in my body as wordless feelings – actual physical feelings – that twinge my sides and hurt my throat and sting my eyes.  I had to give them words, which gave them life, and that was scary.  Once they’re real you have to reckon with them. 

I wrote the book I wish I had when LJ died - the voice I needed in the darkest abysses of grief.  I needed to know what to expect, how to get through it, and how to begin to really live again. 

Through the past 10 years, I have learned what to expect because we experienced it all in real life.  I have learned how to get through it because we did, bruised but breathing.  And I have learned how to live again because, by the grace of God and the love of our amazing village, I just put one clumsy foot in front of the other until that stumble turned into a walk.  Eventually the walk became familiar enough that I could lift my eyes and see the incredible world around me again.

I can’t wait to share the whole book and its story with you.  It releases December 1 everywhere you like to buy books and I promise you’ll be the first to know the updates, announcements, and special surprises in store as we send this little book into the world. 

In the meantime, please say a little prayer today for LJ, and wish him a happy birthday.  Can you imagine the celebration lavished upon us in heaven?  Down here today, we’re taking the kids for cupcakes in Grace Garden, and then meeting as a family simply to be together after all the kids’ nighttime ball games.  I’m surprising them with a bound copy of the manuscript each.  They have absolutely no idea I wrote the book, and I can’t wait to give them this gift.  I didn’t tell anyone, actually, for some very intentional reasons, but that’s a different story for a different day.

I’ve found healing through writing, that’s not news to anyone here.  But this stuff is still so hard sometimes.  I feel sad, and angry, and cheated, that our 10^th birthday party is missing the guest of honor.  I can be faithful and hopeful and trusting and gratefully honor God with my life and still want to stomp my foot and cry “foul.” 

Grief never really gets easier.  It just gets different.  Thanks for loving me, supporting our family, and choosing to lean into the hard stuff.  It doesn’t feel quite so lonely when we face it together. 

HP,

J

I ran across one of the most accurate graphics this week that I've ever seen.  This is exactly true for the season immediately following a loss, and interestingly it is still what my grief looks like 10 years later.  The only difference now is that the top part of the iceberg is a little smaller.  The part under the water is just as big.  Even bigger, maybe, as layers of "what I've learned" have built up over time.   

Depending on which text you reference, there are either 5, 7, or 10 stages of grief.  Navigating the basic 5 just about killed me, ironically.  So maybe breaking it down into 7 or 10 sub-stages would have been easier.  Regardless, there are true distinctive shifts in the grieving process.  And it does help to know that what you are experiencing is normal.  It also helps to know what’s coming on the horizon.    

The only thing harder than losing someone you love is making it through the grieving process that follows.  There's a reason the giant part of the iceberg is the grief nobody talks about.  It's ugly and unpleasant.  I wish we would talk about it more though, because it's universal, and I think we'd feel less alone if we knew someone else was in the same place too.

Any crisis can set you on the grief track: loss, uncertainty, the end of a relationship, career changes, or any other major life curve ball.  I venture to guess that most people we meet out in the world are grieving something.  (That's why it's important to just be nice to people.  We're all hurting.)

LJ's 10th birthday is approaching.  It has pressed me to revisit the 5 stages of grief exactly as I experienced them when he died: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  In reality, each of those 5 stages included their own sub-stages like shock, loneliness, crisis of faith, finding community, and peace-making.  (These are my own designations, not clinical by any means.)  

Looking back on how we navigated death, mourning, faith, and finding joy through the grieving process has been oddly encouraging.  We've come a long way and I'm really... proud?... of the hard work we did to learn and grow through it.  It's a lifelong process so there's still wisdom to be gained as we go.     

My life is more rich and full than I could have ever imagined because I have chosen to wrestle with all these things.  I rumble with them certainly in spite of my own stubborn desire to avoid the painful stretch of change and growth.  But grieving transforms you, whether you agree to it or not.  I like to think we have the choice whether it transforms us for better or for worse.  When we take the time to really lean into the process, grief becomes a powerfully effective teacher.

Related: How grief changes us for good

In the days and weeks after we lost our baby boy, I read every book I could get my hands on to help me understand why I hurt so much.  Even more, I was looking for the secret for how to feel better.  I found short booklets, long narratives, scientific approaches, spiritual perspectives, practical knowledge, and a beautiful grief devotional I still use.  Each of these books were helpful in their own ways.  Yet what I really needed most was someone to say “this is how it was for me.” 

I desperately sought out stories of how grief looked in real life, because I was living it in real life.  It was not a hypothetical loss in a theoretical classroom that could be navigated with professional terminology on a prescribed timeline.  My pain was ready to pull me under.  I needed to know that another real person with real grief over loss just like mine made it through to the other side. 

I realize now that there really isn’t an "other side."  Rather, real people with real grief simply find a path moving forward and choose to walk it one step at a time.  Sometimes you can go quickly, sometimes it’s slow, and sometimes you have to sit down and rest.  Pausing and resting, or even going in reverse for awhile, is okay.  Quitting is not.  As long as you keep going, there is light to be found along the way.  

I undoubtedly made things messier in the process.  I still get lost in the weeds and have to get myself back on the path.  But the further I walk, the better my bearings have become.  And the more tools I've added to my pack.  Tools like coping skills, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, community, self-expression, awareness of myself and other people, and the humility and willingness to ask for help.  

Heart work = HARD WORK but it's work that must be done. 

I know this got real dark real fast here on the ol' HP.  But matters of the heart are equal parts dark and sweet.  And I have found that the darker the water in which you're willing to swim, the sweeter it is on the shore.

So I'm shining my light down the path today for every heart "walking through it."  Come out of the weeds when you're ready and stay the course.  The world needs you here. 

HP,

J