Originally written July 30, 2019

My heart hurts today.

More than yesterday or the day before. I seem to slip in and out of the depths of my grief.

I can only assume that is what the psyche does to preserve itself.

To keep our hearts beating and lungs inhaling and exhaling.

To keep us from stopping and falling over in despair like Caesar on the steps in Rome.

I’ve been saying since the beginning of this, “I want to be present for all of it.”

That I don’t want to escape from the pain or hide my sadness.

For me, this has meant surrendering to what IS.

By loving it, soothing it.

Caressing the very depths of my aching soul.

It’s meant learning to get comfortable with crying in public — not wailing or becoming hysterical, but allowing the tears to fall.

And the breath, at times, to escape me.

For most of my life, I would never allow myself to cry in public.

When the anxiety set in and my throat closed and the tears welled up, I would fan myself frantically to stop it all, to quiet myself, to hush my feelings — to never let you know how human I was.

There is something about this process, this breaking open of my very core, that has welcomed my vulnerability, my humanness — and encouraged it, embraced it and allowed it to become all of me.

I spent half of my life running from myself — fanning my face, my feelings, my fears.

I could not be fully present for any of it.

But now, I find myself in this position, this profound honor to feel the loss of my child, and I don’t want to miss a single second of it.

I don’t want to look back on this time and think, “I missed it.”

So, I am doing whatever I can to be present for it.

To be present for my sadness, my loss, my grief.

To let my tears fall in front of complete strangers and not fan them away.

Or explain them away.

Or feel weird or embarrassed or ashamed.

Pain and suffering is the opposite side of the coin of love.

We cannot have one without the other.

If I were to negate my pain — fan it away — then, I would negate my love.

So I am honoring it, honoring Josiah.

Sitting with it, sitting with Josiah.

Embracing it, embracing Josiah…

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When Grief Speaks is a selection of writings that originated as journal entries and Facebook posts when I was in early grief after my son, Josiah, was killed. They speak straight from the heart, from the depths of despair that many bereaved find themselves in. I offer them here to not only openly share myself with you, but also to connect with those who may feel as I once did. As grief unfolds and matures, it changes. We grow grief muscles that we never wanted. At some point, we find that we can carry what we once thought would crush us and in that, we find hope.