A letter To The Grieving

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that someone you love died.

I’m sorry that there was a moment when they took their last breath and the world continued moving, even though yours had changed completely. Whether their death came after an illness, suddenly through an accident, or in some other way, there was a before, and now there is an after.

I know the world can look very different from here. I know you see life through a difference lense now.

You may feel like a zombie moving through a life you recognize but no longer quite understand. People are going to work. Cars are driving down the street. Someone is laughing in the grocery store. Emails keep arriving. Dinner still needs to be made.

And somehow, you are expected to keep participating in a world in which this person no longer exists.

That is an incredibly distinct kind of pain.

I have lost a lot of people in my life. In The Science and Soul of Yoga, I write about losing my mother and father, but if I sat here and listed every person I have deeply loved and lost, it might seem like a disproportionate amount of death for one lifetime. Some people make it well into middle age before death comes close enough to fundamentally alter the landscape of their lives.

For some of us, it comes much earlier.

So, I know something about this landscape.

I know the nights when you cannot sleep.

I know the nights when all you want to do is sleep.

I know the nights there is a desperation to see an apparition or hear them ruffle a box just for you.; please, so please, pretty please.

I know that food can become something you have to remind yourself to eat. That basic tasks can suddenly require an absurd amount of energy.

And I know that you may not be crying all the time.

You might be. You might not be.

There is no correct performance of grief.

You may have children who still need breakfast, rides, homework help, and reassurance. You may find yourself putting on a face because their world needs to keep moving even while yours feels shattered.

You may have a job that still expects you to show up, respond to mundane emails or calls. Sometimes work is unbearable. Sometimes it is the only place where your mind gets a few hours of relief because you have something else to focus on.

And then there are the grief triggers.

A song.

A smell.

A birthday.

A holiday.

A car.

A wheelchair.

A sale on their favorite item. Should I get it for them?

A photograph you weren't expecting to see.

Someone saying their name.

Something funny happens and, for half a second, you think, I have to tell them.

And then you remember.

They are not here.

That realization can collapse time. Suddenly, everything comes back to that singular truth.

They died.

We can pray for them. We can talk to them. We can tell stories about them. We can keep their photographs around us and create memorials and traditions. We can carry forward the things they taught us.

And still, there is the physical reality of their absence.

They are simply not here.

That can ache in a way that language does not adequately describe.

I wish I had words that could make that better for you.

I don't.

And I don't want to give you a platitude because I know how hollow those can sound when someone you love has died. I will tell you though, the platitudes sound better from someone not trying to rush you, from someone who has been through it. So, with that said, what I can tell you is that there is a path forward.

Not a path away from them.

Forward.

It is messy. It isn't linear. Some days you may feel almost like yourself again, and then something knocks the wind out of you. You may laugh and then feel guilty for laughing. You may have a beautiful day and still miss them terribly.

Both things can be true.

Your life can begin expanding again without your love for them becoming smaller.

There may eventually be mornings when they are not the first thing you think about. There may eventually be moments of joy that do not immediately collapse underneath the weight of their absence.

That does not mean you have forgotten them. It never means you loved them less. Please remember that.

It just means you are still alive.

And if right now you cannot imagine how another human being has survived this kind of pain, please know that people have.

You do not need to know today what your life will look like years from now.

You don't even have to believe yet that you will be okay.

For now, perhaps it is enough to keep breathing. To eat something. To sleep when you can. To let someone sit beside you. To say their name. To cry when the tears come and not force them when they don't.

And when you can, I hope you begin to believe again in the sacredness of tomorrow.

Not because tomorrow erases what happened.

Not because time makes their life less important.

But because you are still here.

There is still life here.

There are still people to love, things to experience, places you have not seen, conversations you have not had, and versions of yourself you have not met yet.

You are allowed to carry your grief with you into all of it.

I'm so sorry you lost your person.

You are not alone.

I love you.

Warmly,

Chereen