Making Meaning of Grief

So, I’ve reached the third part of my story.

The first part was about how I showed up in the world—how my own personal brushes with death shaped me, and how religion gave me a sense of security and guardrails to live within. It made me feel safe and, in some ways, less afraid.

Then came the deaths of each of my parents and how those losses impacted me.

There are a few pieces of my story that I still want to share like - how did I actually manage my grief? How did my curiosity and need to seek answers help me make meaning of it? And finally, when I pull all of this together, what has death taught me? What does it give us? What does it take from us?

And most importantly, how did I come to believe that our bodies die, but our souls and our energy live on?

So, let’s begin with grief.

How Did I Manage My Grief?

In the beginning, especially that first year after my mom died, I think it was mostly about allowing myself to feel my feelings and talk about her whenever I could.

I often shared her story with strangers. It wasn’t because I wanted people to feel sorry for me. I think it was actually a way of regulating myself. It was like I needed to get the story out of me—to discharge some of that energy, release it—and afterward, I usually felt better.

I’m also not proud to say that I didn’t always grieve in healthy ways.

Sometimes I drank more than I would have liked. Most of the time I was with other people and socializing, but I also found more opportunities to socialize because I think I just didn’t want to sit at home and be in my sadness.

I was still there for my children. I still ran our household. I went to work and continued to show up for the people in my life.

But inside, I felt very alone and devastated.

One thing I did through church that was really helpful was participate in a grief group. It gave me an opportunity to hear other people’s stories, share my mom’s story, and simply be there for one another.

I continued going to church, too, although for a long time I felt like I was just there as a placeholder. Nothing really landed on my heart. Church gave me a sense of home and familiarity, but my heart was broken.

They say the first year is the hardest, but I honestly think that depends on the person. For me, it was. My mom’s death happened so quickly and unexpectedly that it left my head spinning. We had no preparation for it.

To help myself stay connected to her, I would look at her daily calendar and go back through her journals to remember what she had been doing during the last year of her life.

And I would think about everything in terms of the last.

This was the last holiday we had together.

This was the last birthday.

This was the last vacation.

I kept mentally moving through that final year, reliving both the memories and the sadness of knowing they would never happen again.

And I allowed myself to cry.

I recently found this card that I wrote to my mom in college, during a time when she was struggling (it’s the photo on this blog post).

Reading it again made me feel good—not because of what she was going through, but because it reminded me of just how close we were.

Even then, I wanted her to know that she didn't have to hide her sadness from me. That I was there to listen. That she could tell me things she couldn't tell other people.

After losing someone, I think there can be so much focus on what we wish we had said or done differently. Finding this reminded me of what we did have.

My mom and I had a strong relationship. We knew each other deeply, and we were there for each other.

And I have to smile at my young adult self writing, “Everyone has to be sad sometimes & needs a good cry once in awhile.”

Apparently, I've been preaching the importance of feeling your feelings for a very long time.

And on the theme of feelings and allowing myself to cry, at the time my mom died, I worked part-time for a community college. Thursdays were my last workday of the week, and I would sometimes sit in my car and cry before heading home.At the time, I worked part-time for a community college. Thursdays were my last workday of the week, and I would sometimes sit in my car and cry before heading home.

It was almost like, Okay. I kept myself together for the week. I made it through work. I got most of my parenting duties done. Now I can let myself cry.

Then I’d wipe my face, drive home, and step right back into all of my roles—parent, wife, best friend, academic advisor, and everything else.

It does get easier, like they say. But I don’t believe grief ever completely goes away.

The pain and suffering ease. The weight gets lighter. But I will continue to grieve the deaths of the people I love for the rest of my life.

And that it doesn’t have to be a sad state of affairs.

Years can go by and I won’t shed a tear over the loss of my mother. Then one day, a song will come on the radio or a memory will pop into my head, and I’ll have a good cry.

Just last week, I cried multiple times over my dog Dexter, who died two years ago.

I’m a true believer in allowing yourself to have your feelings and letting them move through you. Holding back your tears only creates the potential for a massive tsunami later.

So how did I grieve initially?

I talked about it a lot.

And I cried about it a lot.

Oh, and I also talked out loud to my mother. A lot.

As I’ve shared in earlier blogs, I received answers from her in so many different ways. Just not in the MAIN way I wanted them—through her voice, her touch, her physical presence.

Of course, that’s what I wanted! I wanted her here, in person, in the flesh.

Getting signs from her was mind-blowing, but it wouldn’t be fair to say those signs completely filled the void. NOTHING DOES.

But they sure made things a little sweeter.

I have to share something about the way my daughter grieved because it touched my heart so much.

She was only nine years old when her grandmother died, and somehow she figured out her own way to grieve.

She began writing to her grandmother in a journal every day.

I found the journal about a year after my mom died, and it was precious. It was filled with little daily updates about what was happening in my daughter’s life. She was basically giving her grandma the rundown.

She would tell her how much she loved her, how much she missed her, and that she would never forget her.

What a beautiful way for a nine-year-old child to maintain a connection with someone she loved.

I know my daughter probably wasn’t consciously thinking about “connecting with a loved one on the other side.” She was simply missing her grandma and finding a way to continue talking to her.

But looking back now, I believe that is exactly what she was doing.

And I believe it helped her.

And Then Came Curiosity

Eventually, my grief began leading me somewhere else.

I became curious about the other side.

I wanted more information than what I had been taught my whole life. I started looking outside of my traditional Christian beliefs. I talked to mediums and psychics and began opening myself up to ideas that, at one time, would have scared the hell out of me.

Because that was what I had been taught growing up in my faith: Do not mess with the other side.

At first, I was afraid.

But as I worked more with Asha and met other healers and spiritual teachers, what I experienced didn’t feel dark or dangerous or scary.

It felt beautiful.

It felt enlightening.

And most of all, it felt connecting.

Being a counselor—and naturally someone who is always trying to understand why we are the way we are—I also began discovering different tools and ways of understanding ourselves, our energy, and perhaps even our souls.

And that opened an entirely different door for me.

More on that in my next post.