Fresh Grief
There are many kinds of grief. Little and big. Sneaky and obvious. Subtle and quiet. Sharp and loud. The loss of summer warmth and the ease of stepping outside in a t-shirt and shorts. A reminder, as I look down at my flat chest, of what cancer has taken from me. The sadness in missing colleagues who have left my school, no longer sharing the ups and downs of our own lives, and of a school year. The wonderful memories of past marathon seasons heightening the ache I feel this time of the year, since saying goodbye to 26.2 miles and hello to preserving this runner’s body for shorter distances and longevity.
Grief is woven into our days and our lives, and we don’t always acknowledge it. Joy and grief are companions that each bring profound meaning and visceral emotions. Can we truly have one without the other? I don’t think so. How could we fully embrace joy if we haven’t known the loss and sadness life also delivers? Grief wouldn’t be so raw and real if joy isn’t also raw and real. We grieve because we also know love and joy. We know love and joy most genuinely when we hold close the precious and fragile nature of life. If we love every day, we also lose every day. A fleeting moment that won’t be recaptured. A sunrise we will never see again. Another day lived brings us closer to our last day lived.
As someone who tries to live gratefully, present and alive to the gifts all around me, this seeming dichotomy of joy and grief has become more deeply etched into my mindset. In good ways. Embrace joy. Embrace grief. Be fully in this moment, this day.
As Brother David Steindl-Rast says: “If you learn to respond as if it were the first day in your life and the very last day, then you will have spent this day very well.”
Be curious. Experience awe. Be accepting. Know peace. Be aware. Be kind. Take care of yourself, each other, and the planet. Contribute, don’t contaminate. Help, don’t hinder.
It has been several months since my mom died, at age 95. I was one of five family members at her bedside when she drew her final breaths on the evening of February 28, 2026. Her heart stopped beating. Her earthly existence ended. After years of telling her “It’s okay to let go Mom” she, at last, released a final sigh. I felt closer to my mom in recent years than I had in previous decades. The irony that as she slipped deeper into dementia, no longer able to communicate much at all, she slipped into my heart and head in fresh ways.
Grief at the finality of her passing. Joy in the belief that on some level she reunited with Dad, my sister Mary Jo, her own siblings, and many others. Grief for the conversations we never had and questions I never asked. Joy at the peace I believe she now knows.
I felt like I was leaning into and experiencing the grief of Mom’s death in these months since, but life gets busy. Heads and hearts get crowded with other stuff going on. Unknowingly, I pushed the grief aside, a little at a time. But that’s the thing about grief. You can’t erase it or tamp it down. It remains and finds a way out. Sooner or later. It may not even look or feel like grief by that time. That’s the disservice we do ourselves and our losses.
So when a conversation with my friend Jill ended up bringing my grief for Mom back to front and center, I was very grateful. Jill was thanking me for helping her through the difficult time of her own mom’s decline and death several years ago. Her tears helped me tap back into my own. The letter I had been writing to my mom, since this past Mother’s Day, was pulled back out and fresh ink added fresh tellings and fresh emotions.
Fresh grief opened me up in new ways. I realize how much I miss my mom’s physical presence. Even when her awareness was gone and communication limited, I could be in the same room with her, feeling her presence, seeing her breathing. This woman who brought me and my twelve siblings into this world. I could play her some music and watch her hands “dance.” I could show her pictures and tell her what is happening with my family. Kiss her goodbye and say “I love you Mom.”
Fresh grief reminded me that, although I miss her physical presence, Mom is still with me. I have now dubbed her “Gertie the Spirit Guide” and I reach out to her beyond-physical presence. We connect via our souls. I find joy in the ways that she shows up—in Nature, on a walk, as I journal, in little reminders like the number “95” on a recent fast-food order. She guides and energizes me, helping me find the joy at hand. Fresh grief. Fresh joy. Fresh love.
This picture, taken last Saturday morning at 6:41 a.m. from our deck, embodies what I just wrote about. Joy. Grief. Seeking light and peace. Experiencing gratefulness and the “great fullness of life.” Onward!
