“Everybody winters at one time or another; some winter over and over again”.
Katherine May, Wintering.
When my son died six years ago, I started journaling and if someone had said to me then that I’d share some of it publicly one day I’d have thought them a little mad. But a year later I found myself doing just that, first as part of fundraising efforts. But four years later in 2022 when my fundraising efforts dwindled (it’s hard to keep asking for money) I still had a lot to say about missing my son, and with that I started writing a little on instagram. It can be a lonely life inside the world of child loss, writing is an outlet to express some of my grief, to share some insight, and a way to keep my son present in my life. I often find much comfort in words and I hope my stories can do that for others walking this path in life.
Despite all that, lately I’ve been asking myself the question - why am I still writing? No doubt the question is partially at least created by own self doubt which can take over when I feel down, yet society also creates the feeling within me that I should be done writing about my dead son. I should be over it. We largely don’t talk about the dead, don’t bring them into conversation, and if we do it tends to quickly get awkward, the air changes in the room, the conversation switches or platitudes are given, and while they’re well intended, they don’t usually help - my son isn’t in a better place, there is no silver lining or lesson to be learned or worthwhile wisdom to be gained. This is not going to get easier nor is it fixable. He is never coming back.
With writing I can express my grief honestly with a distance from society.
I miss my son every single day. I miss the life he doesn’t have and the life I don’t get with him. I miss the family of four that we should be and everything that is lost because we are three. I am still stumbling upon new ways his loss impacts my life, my family. I think I always will be.
Grief lives with me, every day.
But not all of my grief feels the same.
In the early years I lived almost only in the darkness of grief, the only light in my life coming through my family. I had no light of my own. The simple daily tasks of caring for my older son gave me purpose, his little face the reason to get up every single day. The steady nature my husband who was always close by, helped me stay anchored, and over time find parts of myself I forgot existed. My own light has slowly returned, starting with small glimmers of hope, but slowly it got brighter and life, a good life, has returned to me, a life with genuine gratitude, laughter, and so much love. In those early years I was often confused by some of the things I read about grief, that it is a friend, a thing to welcome, or simply love. To me it was a wholly consuming desolate place that held nothing at all except a bottomless hole of missing my son. It was hard to feel anything else. But with time as my ally I have been able to move through that confusion and I believe that indeed grief is love, and one that does have places to go, a love I pour into finding ways to keep my son present with me, to honour his life, to keep his heart alive in mine while I endeavour to live the best life I can. I believe this, very much. But that other part of grief, the dark side that was constant in those early years never really leaves, it returns over and over, and it is a thing that can only be endured when it does. It feels like a sinking, the light dimming inside my soul, I can try to stop it, but I never win. I can hide it mostly now, I can even hide from it sometimes, but this darkness that arrived with my son’s departure from this life has remained, now it simply ebbs and flows.
The deepest ache. The dark side of grief.
This side of grief feels like a dark cloud that hides the light, that stops me feeling my sons heart in mine. It steals his presence from rainbows and makes many things seem rather futile. These days look almost the same on the outside, I function at what I think is a rather impressive level, but my body weighs so much more, filled to the brim with aching for my son, the same daily tasks that usually get done on autopilot without much thought are now an effort. And the stuff that isn’t necessary, well that mostly stops. When it lifts I miss my son the same but life returns to me in a way that feels easier, lighter. And that is where I wish I could stay.
I don’t get to choose when the dark side of grief returns. But I do get to choose ‘how’ I live in these days. And that is very important. My therapist recently reminded me of some coping strategies when I’m feeling super down - small moments, look for the joy in them, the birds singing, a funny moment with my husband, an unexpected but welcome hug from my neighbours daughter, a morning of rugby with my son. The trick of course is the ability to be fully present in these moments, to connect to life today so I can feel them, that is what the dark side of grief makes hard, that is some of the hardest work of my grieving heart. It is a good reminder, finding joy in the small moments, the ‘now’, it can be very powerful, transformative even, and a little overwhelming sometimes. What it is to be alive and fully feel a moment in my heart when it’s aching so deeply, missing the one who isn’t here with me. It can take my breath away.
The day after my therapist reminded me of these coping strategies, I took my dog for his evening walk. It was dusk in the park, and darker along the trails as the trees hid what little light of the day was left, the darkness was comforting, and so was the solitude of being the only one along the trails as the sun departed and night crept in. I was interrupted from my thoughts by some lost walkers as I turned a corner, they startled me, with a brief conversation I set them back on course and continued on. But with the interruption my hearing was ignited and I heard the birds, at this time of day it’s usual for starlings to swoop across the fields, twisting and turning in huge flocks, murmurations are mesmerising. But before I met those walkers I was lost in the darkness of the trails, the darkness of my own mind. So much so I didn’t even hear the birds. Yet they were still there, singing their evening songs to each other as the darkness fell. A small moment of joy to behold.
Back to those ideas, about grief being a friend, a thing to welcome, or love with places or no place to go, still love either way. I believe they can all be true, and while I’m not sure I’ll ever call it a friend grief can be all those beautiful things that help us feel connected to our missing loves. And, grief can also be the thing that doesn’t feel like any of those things, that doesn’t feel like love at all, that feels like the darkest, loneliest place in the world.
Grief can be darkness and light. Both are true.
And grief will always continue to unfold, and shift as I continue to live, to love, to endure.
So maybe that’s why I will always write, being a parent never ends. And as I walk this earth without my child I am still searching for understanding, for comfort, for hope, and for those ways to keep loving my son, to have his life continue to have an impact in my life and on the lives of others through my stories for our hearts.