By Chantelle Pence

When I was deep in grief I couldn’t stand being around those “positive people.” They were too far removed from my internal experience, and in their company I felt like I was failing. I wanted my life to be better. I wanted to be happy. But I didn’t know how. I felt trapped by something bigger than me. And though many had opinions, no one had the key.

Plenty of people admonished me for wallowing, or suggested I just turn to God. Pray about it. There were the folks who came at me sideways, with stories about a “friend” who had also gone through tragedy but was now thriving! Perhaps I should just be a little more stoic. Maybe I needed some vitamins. In short, people grew weary of being around a depressed person. Not that I blame them. I packed around a heavy energy, and it was difficult to be in close proximity. It was even more difficult to carry.

My middle son gave it to me straight, and I thank him to this day. He put his hand on my arm, two years after his brother chose suicide. “Mom,” he said, “someday you’re gonna get tired of feeling like this and you’re gonna change.” He said it without judgement. Without coercion or urgency. He looked at me without flinching. With complete acceptance of where I was, and where I could be. It gave me some relief.

It took four years before I felt like I could breathe easily. And a couple more after that to really pick up the pieces. It wasn’t pretty. Could others have handled it better than me? Probably. But it was my journey. I work with bereaved people, now, and try to offer to them what my son offered to me. Acceptance. I tell them the journey through grief is like a long Alaskan winter. It’s dark and cold. It just is. No amount of positive affirmations changes the nature of the season. The best we can do is tend to our home fires. In due time we will feel the sun again. 

Like the seed under the ground, it takes time to rise from the dirt. There is no hurrying it. I remember the first day I felt peace after my son’s passing. I was sitting outside during my lunch break. The sun was warm on my face as I watched people walk by. I noticed my heart was at ease and realized I wasn’t feeling grief. It was the beginning. A new life was emerging.

Today, I am grateful and live life rather joyfully. The pain never really goes away, but it’s not the all-consuming presence it once was. In the early years it’s with you every second of every day. Even when you sleep. Like my son predicted, at some point I got sick of wrestling with it and began to accept it. I quit clinging, and accepted the reality of death. Not only the death of my son, but of other relationships, dreams, and the way I thought things should be. The way I thought I should be. I got down on my knees and surrendered. In my own timing. Not because someone else was pushing me.

I’ve come full circle in many ways. I’ve gotten to consciously experience the other side of the fence, where I carelessly tread on someone who was down in the dumps on a day that I was particularly happy. She was a successful and bright lady, but life had dealt her a blow and she was knocked over. I entered her space full of sunshine and positive vibes, and literally saw her shrink back from me. There was too much disparity in our energetic frequencies. She didn’t have the strength to rise to meet me, under the weight she was carrying. My presence just added to her load.  I try to be very careful now, when approaching people who are suffering, and walk lightly. Lowly. 

I now know that all of the pep talks I gave my eldest son, while he was in depression, just added insult to injury. If I had it to do over again I would crawl on my hands and knees to sit with him in the darkness, with full presence and acceptance. No preaching. No teaching. No arrogant attempts to hijack his journey. But, that’s another story. 

When an animal is injured they will seek out a dark corner where they can tend to their wounds. If we go bouncing up to them with high energy and an expectation that they come out and play, they will likely bite us. Since they are an animal, we respect that natural reaction. When injured people act out we are not so forgiving. As humans, we are designed to rise above our animal instincts. But tragedy has a way of activating our primal nature.  

I didn’t fully surrender to the nature of grief until I watched a documentary about elephants, and how they gathered around a skull that was lying on the ground. They each took turns touching the remains of their kin, as if having a ceremony. Another story captured my attention. A whale carried around her dead calf for weeks, and people marveled at her love. No one told her to “let go!” Nature just took its course. Observing the animals and their reactions, it dawned on me that maybe there wasn’t something wrong with me. I was just grieving. By allowing myself to be natural, and not some positive portrayal, I came into grace. I quit striving to be happy, and found peace. 

While everyone will experience grief differently, I have now talked to hundreds of people in mourning and see common themes. I hear the same questions again and again. “How long will it feel like this?” “Has my brain changed?” “Am I going crazy?” People often comment that they “didn’t know it would be like this.”  I’ve heard outgoing people say how hard it is for them to socialize. People are astounded by the power of grief and how it picks them up like a ragdoll. They want to know how to regain control. 

When faced with someone who is sinking in grief, I resist the impulse to pull them up. That’s an assault to their soul. We must give others the dignity of their own journey.  I don’t know how long they will stay in the darkness. If their road will be rocky or if they will travel it with relative ease. I just know that it is sacred. And life changing. I trust that it’s, absolutely, as it should be. The only advice I would give is to not look for happiness, that’s too far of a stretch. Aim for acceptance. It’s OK to be sad. 

More from Chantelle Pence:

Eat the Fat

Everyone Brings Something: A lesson in building community