The day your person died, you died too. The new version of you is going to have to take a journey for which you are not prepared and do not want to participate.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry that you must face this forced reincarnation.

In Christianity, there is a verse in the Bible that begins with, “…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Those words are a powerful picture of what must happen. 

Your journey is to walk through the valley of the shadow of death. It is not optional. You can’t run away from it, or work away from it, or pretend it’s not there. 

Take the journey. 

At the beginning of the journey, your grief will feel like a giant, nebulous monster. You may worry it will destroy you, which is why you will want to run. Running away may look like over working or under functioning. It may look like too much screen time, wine, work, or sleep.

Your grief will not destroy you, no matter how terrifying it feels.

Allow yourself to meet the monster, even if you do it for one minute. Stop on the side of the road in the valley, maybe under a shade tree and rest. Close your eyes and take deep breaths. 

And then allow it to approach you. Ask it what it needs. Literally say the words, 

“I see you. Come here.”  

Allow yourself to feel the anguish; its’ anguish and yours. It will overwhelm you, but you’ll be okay because it’s only for one minute. 

Scream if you need to. Cry if you want. Allow yourself to feel the emotions.

At the end of your minute tell the monster it must go away for now, but that you will allow it to return. Then get up, brush yourself off and continue with your journey. 

You will discover that over time the monster will get smaller. It will calm down and quit chasing you. It will allow you to breathe.

And then one day, the monster of grief will ask to come and visit again, and you will pause on your journey, maybe sit under a shade tree, and say the words, 

“I see you. Come here.”  

You will discover that the monster that once consumed you has changed. It has transformed and dissipated. If you look closely, it actually resembles a child. 

Not a human child, although it could. But a child-like version of what it once was. 

That child is yours. It’s your grief, and it will always be with you. But children are manageable.

When it cries for attention, say the words and allow it to come sit on your lap. Ask, “what do you need?” You may be surprised at the answer. 

Rock it and soothe it for a while.

Breathe. Breathe for the both of you.

It will calm down, maybe get the hiccups. You will dry its tears, give it a favorite blankie, and then remind it that “we’re ok.” 

And then you’ll notice that in fact you are ok. You are surviving. 

You are taking baby steps to get through the valley. 

You’re learning to stop and care for yourself and your new companion called grief. 

My precious, newly widowed friend, you are indeed surviving. 

At the end of this journey you will finally arrive in new land that lies beyond the valley of the shadow of death. 

It will be very different; but it can be beautiful too. Perhaps there will be waterfalls, green grass, and beautiful shady trees. Maybe there will be mountains or oceans. Regardless of what it looks like, It will be peaceful. 

Your little friend grief will like it too, and maybe even leave you for longer periods of time as it explores this new world. 

This is your new beginning. 

You will be battle worn and weary from your journey.  Do what all weary travelers do: rest and refresh your body and soul.

It’s been waiting for you all along. 

Don’t give up hope.

Julie