Moving Through Grief

This past November 3rd marked the 7-year anniversary of Dan's death. It was a strange anniversary for me; I felt better—better than I ever thought I could without Dan. When Dan died, I was incredibly sad. For years, I didn't know how to feel any other emotion.

Six months after Dan died, a friend said to me, "It feels like Dan died two years ago, doesn't it? It feels like so long ago."

"No, it doesn't." I responded.

I was quiet so she couldn't hear me. She repeated, "It does, doesn't it?"

We were with a friend of hers, who lightly tapped her on the arm at that point, signaling to her to end the conversation.

Later, when we were alone, she told me, "You should open yourself up to love."

I could tell she thought she was offering a solution to save me from my grief. Lose one boyfriend, find another. I had recently lost 20 pounds from not eating so in some ways, I had never looked more date-able. (Sarcasm.)

I told her, meekly, "I am. I am open to love."

I was too embarrassed to say the truth—that I was not ready for any new relationships, not even a new friendship, which is why I was still talking to her in the first place.

She could sense my hesitancy, so she continued. "I know this is different—and I'm not comparing—but I was with someone for 5 years and then we broke up. It was really hard, but then I met [my current boyfriend] and he really opens a side of me I didn't know. Like I'm really silly with him!"

I totally missed the point and responded, "I was really silly with Dan." And then I said, "I liked who I was with Dan. I still want to be that person."

Two years after that conversation, I did start dating. Casually. Since most of my dating experience was from my teenage years, I had no idea what I was doing. It took me another two years to fall in love with someone—someone who was as silly and weird and in touch with his dark side as I was.

But I'm pretty sure that if had I met him two years earlier, I wouldn't have even known it. We actually did quickly realize that we had been in the same room a handful of times before we ever noticed each other. But I couldn't meet Alex until I was ready, and I finally was.

It was hard to be patient with myself when I kept feeling how impatient others were with me. And I understand. I carried my grief on my face, throughout my whole body. Even the tone of my voice took on a constant sadness, regardless of what I was expressing. I was difficult to be around.

But eventually, I made new friends. I came into my own, and found that I was ready for new connections, including love, because I was true to myself and my experience, and never forced it.

It's easy to fuel the impulse to move on quickly from something difficult. Those around us have the choice to move on, or to encourage it, because they are not the ones going through it. But by allowing ourselves to feel difficult things freely, openly and deeply, we are more likely to move through the emotions fully, and process them into healthy parts of our identity that will not continue to traumatize and derail us.

I think moving on from something is an impossible thing, but moving through something is possible. It's a small distinction, but it's important to understand what that means.

The only way to feel better is to acknowledge difficult emotions, feel them deeply and understand that you will actually feel terrible for some time. You can find people who are like-minded, who aren't jerks, and who will listen and also acknowledge your feelings with you. I think by getting to the bottom, we can find our way back to the top—even if it looks different than when we left it.