I'm not convinced I've done much with my grief besides learn how to set it down often.
Happy death date?
I was committed to having an exceedingly normal day today.
[This draft was started on July 11, 2025; I couldn’t finish or return to it until now. Grief brain is wild.]
I refuse to make this arbitrary date a thing. My dad’s sudden passing is not something to commemorate. The days to honor him and remember him are any day, his birthday, Father’s Day, etc. Not today. I wouldn’t want to be remembered by the date I died.
I was committed to having an exceedingly normal day today.
It’s not going to plan.
Now let me be clear — I was not committed to not feeling anything today. In fact I gave my best friends a heads up that I might need some extra support or a distraction. I left space for myself to be swallowed up by grief, and I left space to have a normal or even fun day too. It’s only the 3rd occurrence of this date meaning what it means and no one gave me a grief rulebook so… you know. We’ll just do our best.
No big plan to fall apart. No big plan to do something special. No big plans period.
But pretending like that’s the same as a normal day was flawed logic on my part. It’s not normal at all. Today sucks. (I woke up surprised to not be crying, then guilty to not be crying, then glad to not be crying. Then, blessed be my meditation practice, I had the skill to turn my brain off. It does not need to be dissected and simmered in all the time.)
Today sucks because it’s a calendar mark, a big red X, a reminder that, hey you: Grief does not shrink. Loss does not get quieter over time.
I’m not convinced anyone ‘heals’ from major loss. I’m not convinced it’s something that can even be ‘processed’ to some end degree. I’m not even convinced that I’ve done anything since that day except learn how to set it down regularly.
I don’t mean for this to come across as scary, hopeless, or doom and gloom. Please hear me out.
I was lucky enough, in the two years leading up to my dad’s sudden passing, to have ghostwritten for a grief and healing leader. Kismet, right? I learned — and then articulated for this person — all of their teachings. And if I had to pick ONE that feels the most true and most relevant most often, it’s this one:
Some people compare grief to a ball inside of a box. Every time the ball hits the inside of the box, you fall into the grief. The despair, the sadness, the lost-ness. At first, the ball is nearly the size of the box, barely fitting inside. It hits the sides almost constantly. But over time, the ball shrinks, the grief slowly shrinks, until it hits the sides less and less often. It will always be there, and it will always hit the walls again, but not so cripplingly.
This teacher created a metaphor that felt truer for her, and that I really agree with: Grief never shrinks. The ball never gets smaller. However, the box grows bigger with time. You grow around your grief. Your life grows around the grief. The loss is still just as pertinent, just as heavy, just as dark, just as big. And it never goes away. But you, you, grow bigger. You carry it. It never gets lighter, but you get stronger.
And I do hold this to be true. I have changed in so many ways since that day, and I love who I have become, even if I hate the reason for that growth. I and my life have grown bigger and deeper around that never-shrinking weight.
But here’s the thing: I don’t think this is synonymous with healing. And, I’ve decided healing is not the point. Some things you simply don’t heal from.
This is what I mean when I say, I’m not sure I’ve done much with my grief except learn how to set it down often.
It’s just there. It just is. The hole in the earth of my chest can never be filled. All I can do is grow with it there, and plant flowers in the space around it, and not climb in and bury myself.
In its state of never-healed, it triggered healing all around it. I stopped spending my time living for the future. I stopped doing things I didn’t enjoy just because I felt I had no other choice. I stopped floating through on autopilot. I stopped caring whatever metrics of success others held, and discovered and defined my own measures of success and happiness. I started being more present with people. I started having joy and fun in any possible moment simply by deciding that was possible. I became more decisive. I became more actively caring. I think I was always a caring and loving person, but I made sure that showed up in regular action and devotion, not just internal feelings. And, also kismet (thanks Universe), I had taken a break from drinking for months prior to that day, and haven’t taken it back up since. (Casually-sober life is way better, btw.) I don’t think I would have survived long after that day had I still been drinking (or self-harming, something I had been clean of for around 3 years at the time). I cursed the world and then decided to love it again. I cursed my spirituality and then decided to love it again.
Since July 11, 2022, I used to say I haven’t seen the sun. And I haven’t— at least, not the same sun. It’s different, and will never be the same. My world never started spinning again, I just found myself transported to a different one, one that hadn’t existed before that moment. One where my dad didn’t exist, something I didn’t think was possible.
Am I still making sense? I’ve healed and grown and done a lot since that day, but it’s not been about shrinking or healing loss and grief. It’s been about growing everything else.
I set the cavity of that grief and loss down often enough to still find a way to have a life.
First, out of obligation, then habit, then choice.
If you’re someone in the world who is experiencing this type of loss, I hope this reaches you with love and not despair: I don’t think it gets smaller, and that’s okay. I think you get bigger and stronger, and you carry it, and you set it down, and you build a life with it. And you carry it. And it’s the same. And you set it down.
And soon, life and joy are greater treasures than ever before, in ways many can’t understand.
In trying to find a way to wrap this up, I’m remembering something my dad told me when I was little. My sister and I were scared of monsters in dark. In the attic, under the bed, in the hallway between our doorways and the bathroom. And my dad didn’t say there were no monsters. He said they were there, but they were nice. They don’t bother us and we don’t bother them, that’s all.
I’ll never tell you to see your grief and loss as a gift— fuck that. It’s not a gift. It is a monster. But it’s not there to get you. It’s just there.
It’s there, and so are you. So are you. So are you. Who will you be? What will you do? How will you live?
What measures of success and happiness will you choose and live by?
What will you devote yourself to?
Who will you surround yourself with; what will you remove?
Who will you remember?
What values will you honor?
What practices will you practice?
What patterns and energies will you cultivate, will you let go of?
You don’t need to figure it all out right now. All you have to do is be here. The grief is here too, and it doesn’t shrink. It just is. But so are you. So are you. So are you.
