Riding out the storm.

Grief is like a storm—it rolls in and eventually rolls out. The relief in the minutes, hours, or days when I don't feel its weight is welcome. But it never lasts. When it hits, it feels like a surprise attack, shaking me as I struggle to regain control.

It's as simple and innocent as walking down the grocery aisle and smelling the fresh-baked bread my mother loved. Or strolling along the beach and finding a random flower washed ashore in the most amazing pink—her favorite color. A song on the radio, a cardinal chirping, a beautiful sunset—all reminders that seem to shout, "Don't forget me."
Grief is a club nobody wants to join, but one everyone will experience at some point in their lives. The loss of my mother has, and will forever, change my life. I know it has the power to bury me, or I can remember her with all the wonderful memories and begin living again, just as she would want me to. How I choose to move forward is for me to decide.

​Still, I want to know: Is there a clock that can tell me how long this sadness and despair will last? I'm pretty sure there isn't. I also know that I can't always be afraid to feel it, no matter how long it takes to work through me. Darkness cannot continue to grow in the light. The only way out of this is through it. So I won't walk around the pain; I will walk through it as bravely as I can to help me heal.

I made the choice to ride the storm of grief—with all its bumps and waves—to feel and heal all the sadness surrounding the profound loss of losing the most important person in my life. The person I thought I could never live without. I am still here.

No one could have prepared me for the avalanche of loss I feel now, but I know this: I can't be afraid to feel my pain, or it may very well swallow me whole. My past experiences have taught me that things always become larger and darker when we live in denial and bury ourselves in distractions.

My life manages to move forward no matter what. Letting go of control and expectations of how I should feel now creates the space to walk into the next chapter of life that is waiting for me. Somewhere deep inside, I do have faith that there is something in the next chapters of my story that will support me. Letting go is so hard for me. It's even harder to hang on when all there are now are memories.
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No one told me, or could prepare me, for the avalanche of feelings that come with grief. It's so much more than sadness. It's super complex if you really look at it. My grief shows up in unexpected ways.

• I'm exhausted, even though I am finally sleeping through the night.
• High levels of cortisol racing through my body.
• I lose patience and interest in everyone’s chatter.
• I don’t want to talk or be around friends, even while feeling lonely and isolated.
• I feel a sense of panic that I will never see or hear my mother in physical form again.
• I want to reach out for comfort but am too exhausted and numb to even make the call to a friend.
• I am finding it hard to concentrate on even the little things.
• Not being able to remember conversations or to-do lists at work.
• Panicking at my thoughts that I will always be alone and stuck in a cycle of despair.
• Needing to eat, but nothing sounds good.
• I can't seem to find the energy for common chores like making dinner, taking out the trash, or grocery shopping.
• Taking a shower can feel monumental.
• Feeling ungrounded and not having a sense of who I am now.
• A deep, empty feeling that I don’t know how to fill.
• The inability to relate as I look around, feeling as if everyone is living their life and I’m stuck in a fog of disbelief.
• Trouble finding meaning and joy in the things that once held value.
• Not being seen or heard anymore, feeling as if everyone has moved on but me.
• Feeling anxiety and impending doom over my life.
• Jealous and angry at everyone with parents, family, and partners.
• Desperately craving solitude while also being scared of the quiet.
• Feeling like I may drown in my own tears if I even allow the emotions to surface.
• Guilt for living and trying to move on.

Even in the storm of my grief, I gently remind myself that every storm has an expiration date. Nothing lasts forever. So I am trying to create some joy in the everyday moments—a break from the crushing feelings that jolt me awake at night. I made a promise to myself: I won’t let the hard days win.