Grief is a curious thing. It is dynamic, shape-shifting and completely and utterly isolating. No matter how many people surround you–or how many offer support–there is an insistent, acute awareness that you are going through this completely alone. No one will ever fully understand what you are experiencing, because each experience of grief is uniquely complex. When we share a loss with someone else, we grieve in tandem. Most of the time, we mourn in parallel, nearby each other but not quite touching. On occasion, however, our paths cross and our grief become intimately intertwined. These are transient moments, but it is in them that we feel seen. It is in these moments that our shadows merge, and for a moment we are no longer alone in the darkness. It is in these moments that we feel love and an inkling of hope.
Those who do not share in our loss may struggle to support us in the way that we need. What most want to do is fix, to save us from our strife. What they fail to realize is that there is only one, impossible thing that could do this–the return of our lost loved one. When someone is old or sick and dies, there are a number of common platitudes that people turn to when offering support. Most of these inanities seek to minimize the magnitude of the loss in an effort to console.
“Well, at least they lived a full life.”
“Well, at least they’re not suffering anymore.”
These typically do not bring much comfort to begin with, but they become even more irrelevant when the loss is sudden, or involves a young person. Still, it doesn’t seem to stop people from attempting to use them.
In the weeks following Raegan’s death, I was offered comfort by many people, only a few of which understood what I really needed. I was told, “You know, at some point you will have to get over this.” I was encouraged to look for a silver lining by another person, and to become more stoic by another. I was being told over and over again to bury my current pain, and given instructions on how to avoid any future pain. None of that helped. If anything, it made me feel that I did not have permission to feel, that I had no safe place in which to grieve. I felt obligated to hide my grief in order to make others feel more comfortable. I cried (mostly) alone. When people stopped asking how I was doing, I stopped telling them. I pretended, am pretending, to be fine, when in reality it still feels as though the ground may shatter beneath my feet.
There were really only a few exceptions to the above. My best friend, who has experienced a similar loss, simply said, “I get it; it fucking sucks. It doesn’t get better; you just learn how to live with it.” I found his candor refreshing. Everyone had been placating me, telling me that it would be okay. I felt crazy for thinking that it never would be. One of my cousins waited about a week to reach out. When she did, her message to me was short and sweet. Whatever I was feeling, and whenever I was feeling it was okay. She validated my feelings, and consequently gave me permission to grieve in whatever way I needed to. My boyfriend, although pretty much a stranger at the time, encouraged me to feel what I was feeling, ask for help when I needed it, and exercise some self-compassion. He encouraged me to be authentic in my heartbreak with myself and with the people around me.
When Rae died, I didn’t know what I needed. I knew what I wanted, and that was for her to come back. But in the absence of that possibility, I was required to seek out other forms of comfort. Countless people tried to support me, and for that I will always be thankful. I am becoming more and more aware of the fact that I have an army of people standing behind me, fighting for what they think is best for me. I am lucky. I had dozens of people who asked me what I needed, but the truth is that at the time I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I needed, and even if I had, I would not have known how to ask for it.
It has been four and a half months since Rae died, 134 days since I said goodbye to her for the last time. I still don’t know what I need, and if I did, I still wouldn’t know how to ask for it. When Rae passed, a part of me got lost in time, stalled in the exact moment that I heard the terrible news. Yet, life continued to speed past me. My world was at a standstill, but the rest of it seemed to go on without so much as a pause. I had only two metrics of how much time had passed: the changing days on my calendar and the amount of work I had piling up. I felt apathetic toward both.
Time still feels arbitrary, especially in terms of losing Raegan. Sure, I have deadlines and plans to keep, but no amount of time seems to have shallowed the depth of my grief. The people around me seem to think that I have moved on, that I have healed. The truth is, I am still right in the thick of it. I’m beginning to wonder if this feeling will ever go away, or if I will spend the rest of my life missing her. I knew when it happened that I would miss Rae deeply, but I thought that it would be during the big moments, when achieving the milestones that I had always imagined her being a part of. But I miss her just as much in the small moments, when I’m driving alone in my car, while I’m falling asleep, while I’m surrounded by the arms of somebody who cares about me. No matter what I am doing, I find reminders of her everywhere. Like a loose thread, I pick and I pull until I become completely unraveled. Only thirty seconds prior I had been fine, but then find myself completely consumed by grief.
I think that this grief has become a part of me now—both an integral part of who I am, and a powerful force that will guide my future directions. The grief serves to remind me of what I have lost, and how deeply I loved. As much as it plagues me, it encourages me to seek meaning in my life and in my current relationships. Regrets act as cautionary tales, and happy memories as models of experience to strive for. I do not wish to be rid of my grief; I only wish to have her back. In fact, if I must live my life without her, I want the grief in its entirety. I want to be impacted, to be changed forever. I want to love more deeply and more freely, to say yes more often, and to live as much as possible in the present moment.
While grief is an experience unique to each individual, it has the power to bring people together. I’m thankful for the connections that losing Raegan has brought me. I have reconnected with old friends from high school (and their families), grown closer to those who have shown me support, and have developed a bond with Raegan’s mom that I would have never had otherwise. My grief continues to challenge me, and will continue to challenge me in the years to come. I take comfort in the fact that I do not have to face it alone, that I have people in my corner who will catch me when I fall. I will likely carry my grief every day for the rest of my life, but I do not have to carry it alone.
Although right now I am sad, hope still lives within me. The six years that I spent with Raegan were priceless, full of invaluable memories and lessons that I will carry with me forever. I want to find worth in the experience of losing her, and remind myself of the value in remembering her. Raegan will live on in the hearts of those who loved her, and through her memory, will remain immortal.