The Hardest Part: Choosing Grace

I am often asked what the hardest parts of sharing a life with Grief are. The courageous people go on to ask how best to show up for someone who is grieving - what loving them looks like now. More often, no one asks anything—maybe because they assume life has moved on and I must be "better."

In every one of these conversations, though, they offer that single, reflexive line we all gravitate to: "You're so strong. I couldn't do it."

It's the assumption we all make when we've been afforded a life where we don't have to know how we would do it or love someone who does. It's a well-intentioned offering of praise meant to convey kindness and even offer comfort. But it often feels like the subtle way we sidestep the discomfort of facing the reality that the person in front of you is living your worst nightmare, and that it could have just as easily been you. It quietly reminds the recipient: people admire the polished cover - the apparent strength - but they don't know, or are unwilling, to sift through the loaded chapters underneath, all the struggle that fills the pages. And that's fair. This kind of pain is hard to witness. It's uncomfortable and awful to stand in the shadow of. It's normal to want to avoid.

Nonetheless, it's a statement I always want to give my complete response to with never enough time to do it:

Grace (verb): to do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one's presence.

"It takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations...Grace is the quiet roar of strength...grace stands there battered and bruised and still chooses to extend an open hand. That's the real fight, isn't it? To stay soft, to stay human when life tries to harden you into something less. Grace...is the armor of the brave."

Grace and I have gone our rounds—a lot.

Many people who check in on me assume it's my loss and heartache that is the hardest part of my Grief, that I spend most days struggling with all that's been taken this past year and a half and letting go. But that isn't the most challenging part for me. That was the trade-off, the accepted price of loving someone and a life I had been lent for too short a time. I know that, and I'll pay it every time, gladly, because it's how I still feel him. It's how I know in every fiber of being that he was here. It's how I know how very much he mattered, how much it all mattered.

That's not the part that makes it hard to get back up and carry on meaningfully and well.

Because I already did that part -

for 2 years, 8 months, and 19 days.

That's 32 months.

141 weeks.

992 days.

23,808 hours.

1,428,480 minutes.

85,708,800 seconds.

That's how long I spent loving him - and knowing I'd have to let him go. That's how much time I grieved and processed the shape of a loss I could already see coming. It's all the moments that I grasped at and clung to because I knew they were fleeting and would never feel like enough. I made my peace with Grief and welcomed her as I soaked up all the hope and joy that were still there for the time I was given them to borrow, because I refused to let the weight of what was coming steal what wasn't gone yet.

What's hard now:

Standing here, battered, bruised, and bereft with all that's been left and given for my hands and heart to still hold - ever knowing how limited this life is, that it can all be taken and lost in a moment - and still trying to show up fully present, whole despite the million fractures that will always be in the spaces I pieced back together, and giving the best parts and version of me to the life I have and love now.

The mental gymnastics and soulful fortitude that asks of me are exhausting.

Trying to rise in the best way I know how every day for the people I love and who deserve nothing less than the very best and healing version of me, even with my still broken parts, asks more of me than I will ever be able to give easily. Combatting the voice in my head who screams: "This is temporary...they will leave...you will lose," asks for resilience I have to summon over and over and work tremendously hard to hold.

As that war is waged in me silently, people look at the cover I display and say, "You're so strong, I couldn't do it."

And I think: "Is there another option I don't know about? Would you lay down in your loss and let everything else you love slip away, too? No, you wouldn't."

You, too, would find grace - unwarranted and unmerited, hard-won and often fleeting, and you would put her to action...

Because life goes on.

Because you still have people, things, and a life you love to hold.

Because you still know joy is to be found again, and you deserve to have it back.

And it will drain you.

It will demand every ounce of strength and backbone you have - and more.

It will ask more of you than you have or want to give - more often than not.

And you'll do it mostly on your own.

Because it's your battle to fight, and no one else can do this part for you, even when they want to.

And most people won't know that's your real fight.

How hard it really is.

Or that staying soft and human in a life that feels so cruel and, you know firsthand, unpredictable - it doesn't come naturally or easily, for anyone. That it's battled for and chosen every day, as you're incessantly reminded: life will bare its teeth, fight back, and take just as soon as it will give. They won't know it's a quiet and unseen armor you put on, over and over again, as you try to keep your head above water and pull yourself out.

It's worth all of it. But that is the hard part.

And I think that's the playbook for us all. 

Grief is Grief, hard is hard. It doesn't matter what it's about or how it started. We are all wounded warriors carrying around the heavy load of broken hearts and too many pieces to rearrange in our chest that often feels too small and too fragile to hold it all. But grace is the answer to that, every time.

I still feel the loss of Griffin constantly, but I've learned how to carry it and gladly pay the price. It's knowing when that moment passes and the price is paid that I'll have to go on, in and with the grace I so desperately strive for, that often feels insurmountable.  

But, I have been blessed with people who know how to stand in the tidal wave of those moments. Without thinking or any need for explanation, they grab their oars and help me keep rowing when my arms get tired. They grab their buckets without hesitation as we all, slowly but steadily, bail the excess weight out when my ship starts to sink. They don't ask questions; they don't wait to see if I need help — they just jump in. They hear me on my quiet days when words are too much and too little. They grab hold when I'm too worn to stand, even when the Grief I carry seeps out and makes the air around me heavy — and they stay, without flinching, without needing me to make it easier. They offer me their grace when I've lost my own - and gently show me how to find it again.

Because they know:

They can't take it away, fix it, or change anything.

Their willingness to still be present is the offering needed - what makes us truly seen and known.

Their presence is more than enough.

Grace is the gift wanted and that can be held. 

Grace (verb): to do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one's presence.