An Ode to Grief
I believe that American culture has historically failed at both celebration and grief.
(Hint: This is why I make a concerted effort at holding space for these monumental yet existential pieces of the human experience in my therapeutic work.)
I have to wonder if this is similar to the American philosophy of trauma. What I mean by this is that I feel like we have — incorrectly — believed that in order for trauma to ‘classify’ as trauma, we have to have experienced a massive tsunami with ghastly effects, a war with devastating PTSD to show for it……
You get the picture.
Yes, there is a spectrum of trauma intensity — and, I will argue, grief and celebration intensity — but let’s call it what it is, people.
I say all of this as a precursor and a reminder — probably more to myself, to be honest — regarding the grief I experienced this morning.
There I was, walking along the Platte River with my toddler, slowly and curiously, with her wanting to stop at *all of the things*. The snow was melting (finally!) amidst the mile-high effects of the beautiful Coloradan sunshine. I have a goal of getting outside and moving my body — in some way, shape, or form — each day this year, and on a whim, I somewhat arbitrarily chose this walk.
This walk led me to my graduate school, a place I have not physically returned to since graduating in 2020.
My first step onto the campus shook up all of my insides, my knowing body alerting me that I was stepping onto sacred ground. It was as though I had entered a time capsule, teeming with recollections and realities long forgotten despite their relative recency. The mere contact of my foot with the pavement — embedded with so many memories — unleashed a range of emotions within me.
It was nostalgia; It was a longing for naivety; It was grief.
You see, graduate school for me was an awakening in many forms — and I believe this experience to be fairly universal for counseling grad students, in particular. It’s kind of impossible to come out the same person you were before you entered.
For one, it was during my grad school endeavors that I became enamored with learning about psychology and its impact on humankind, something that rocked me to my core. (Side note: my undergraduate degree, business, — while still important — didn’t quite do this for me. Learn more about my career journey here.)
It was throughout my 3 years of grad school that I became bombarded and intrigued with the reflections of my own human experience. (Learn more about my experience as a therapist here.)
It was also in grad school that I was, quite literally, a completely different person. By this I mean I did not hold the insanely pleasurable — with equal parts blessed heaviness — title of “Mama” back in those days. Oh, the unfathomable freedom that once was! (Learn more about my thoughts on motherhood here.)
So there I found myself, both celebrating who I have become while also longing for the period of time in which I was simply in the act of becoming.
Not only did graduate school serve as an awakening for me, it also served as a demarcation.
Earlier, I mentioned I graduated in 2020. Perhaps that registered within you, but perhaps it didn’t, because we’re all so over hearing about 2020 and the chaos that ensued.
But as I was walking along that snow-filled path by my graduate school, I became unavoidably aware that I was longing for something.
I was [and still am] longing for the naivety I once held before 2020. And I’m going to go ahead and guess you are too.
I’m longing for a political system that isn’t so hyper-divided, egotistical, and full of black and white thinking.
I’m longing for the days when hatred and racial divide weren’t at the forefront of America’s mind. And then I have to catch myself — as someone who knowingly holds White privilege — because as history show us, this is not new; we are only growing in long-overdue awareness of the necessity of equal justice for all.
I’m longing for the days when sickness was less of a thought in my mind. (Ahem, becoming a mother in 2020 definitely adds to this one.)
I’m longing for the time when mass shootings and gun violence in general weren’t so prevalent in the United States. I’m longing for past decades when my child’s safety, as well as my own, wasn’t so obviously threatened.
I’m longing for the time climate change effects weren’t so evident — as I remind myself that this is unfortunately what some people need to know it exists.
The world is not as it should be, and I think we all — to some extent — became more aware of this truth in the last 3 years.
I carried all of these thoughts with me as I walked, tears welling up in my eyes — evidence of grief due to a changed world. I noticed a shift within me — feeling lighter and heavier at the same time.
I think grief is like that — it begs to be noticed, it aches to be let in. Only then can it transform into something more beautiful.
As I left campus, I began imagining what another 3 years will do to this world. I am hoping to see a place transforming with renewal, justice, change, peace, and love above all else.
And I can only imagine that in 3 more years I will be back here on this same sidewalk — grieving for these exact moments with my toddler, her hand in mind — one of the truest feelings I know.
If you’re looking for a space to process the grief you encountered systemically + personally in 2020 and beyond, I’d love to help.
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