creating the space

A group I follow on Facebook posted a quote in honor of pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, something about surrounding ourselves with people who allow us the space to be sad. It’s a beautiful statement, and I’m grateful for a community of friends and family who continually supports me in this never ending journey. But I think we as people in grief have the job and responsibility to help create that space. (Our community might be great, but they’re not mind readers.) 

I’m someone who has written about and fully believes that there is no “getting over” or “moving on” from grief. And while that sentiment is true, it is hard to live. 

Because sometimes grief creeps up on us from out of nowhere. Even six and a half years later. Maybe a sweet friend sends you a picture of your sleeping kid and you can’t help but see Oliver’s face in theirs. Maybe Sam asks to see pictures of his brother. Maybe you come across a notebook with the list of names you took to the hospital before you knew he was gone. Maybe you get the chance to explain to a new person in your world that yes Sam is our oldest but he’s not our first. Maybe all those things happen in the same week. 

Maybe in the midst of all that someone asks why you seem low and you want to say, “well, my kid is still dead.” 

But you don’t. Because it feels dramatic and attention seeking. It feels ungrateful for all you do have. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, for the other person mostly. 

And it feels like a failure. It feels like a failure to still be so sad, so many years later. 

It feels like people will think you’re stuck and haven’t moved on. Which you know is bullshit. Because you know there’s no such thing. And you know that a life can be full of love and joy and sadness all at the same time. And there’s no failure in acknowledging that. 

So it’s our job to open up the space. It’s our job to say, “Well my kid is still dead. And I’m still sad about it.” Because when we stay quiet it’s a disservice to ourselves, and it’s a disservice to others to not acknowledge death and its lifelong consequences in our every day life.

And when we open that space, we open up the world of grief for everyone. We let people see that grief isn’t just one thing and it doesn’t look just one way. It isn’t sitting in your room, shutting the world out. It isn’t immobility or failure. It isn’t overshadowing the good in your life. Grief is simply the lifelong price of having loved and lost, and it is existing in us constantly, right alongside love and laughter and abounding joy. 

kindness is the revolution

I have been feeling hopeless these days. I know a lot of us have. I had no hope that the senate was going to do anything other than what they did. I had no hope that women’s lives wouldn’t be threatened for telling the truth. I had no hope that a woman’s trauma would prevent a man from gaining even more power.

I’m beginning to lose hope in these supposed grown ups altogether.

But I’m lucky because I spend most of my time with people who are not grown ups, in my home and in my work. And I have nothing but hope when I look at these children.

I know my real work is to ensure they grow up with different messaging than what has created the adults currently in control of our government. So that’s where I’ll focus my protest and revolution.

I’ll make sure kids know they are in charge of their own bodies.

I won’t ever force a kid to hug me or give affection to anyone they don’t want to, not even as a joke or a game.

I will listen to their words and help them develop language to articulate their feelings.

I will stop commenting on their appearance, especially girls, because a person’s worth has nothing to do with their clothes or hair.

I will teach them that mistakes are inevitable, and still we are accountable for our actions and always take the chance to make it better and try again.

I will make sure they know it is always okay to walk away from people who are not giving them the respect they deserve.

And I will teach them to speak up for those who cannot.

Ultimately I will work every single day to make sure these children know they are inherently good and the most powerful, revolutionary thing that they can do is be kind.

(And then when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them two things. Be kind. And vote.)