Kind Words and Tears
It's something else to name that grief will always be part of me. Missing Ryan, hurting with his memory, treasuring the awareness of him and the pain it brings, these are not just things I do. They are part of my identity. When that pain is hidden, part of my self is unseen, secret, unacknowledged. Certainly, there are times not to speak of it, but they are rare. More often, like any secret identity, being unseen comes at a cost. The secret becomes it's own presence, a distraction. It takes up space and draws on energy.
This is why it feels so strange when people follow the impulse that I would have followed before I knew: the impulse not to make me cry. People don't know what to do with grief. When it arrives in a room folks go quiet, or change the subject. I think they don't want to make me cry.
It's OK. I've been there. And also, I don't always want to cry either.
Still, the magical thing is when someone does make me cry. When someone sees the grief in my spirit and names that truth, it welcomes authenticity into the space between us. It loosens the hold I keep on grief and eases the flow of emotions. It offers the solace of companionship. It allows the essential and excruciating experience of grief to find expression. It doesn't bring grief into the room. It acknowledges that truth that grief is already there, because I am there. As simply as I bring blue eyes, number sense, and femininity into a room, so too grief is part of the identity that is mine.
It's not that I want every conversation to include an expression of my grief. Just as I sometimes go days or weeks without anyone seeing my math skills and lots of folks never notice the color of my eyes, some encounters simply don't fit with grief. I don't think any situation has room for all the parts of any one person. It all depends on what comes up in the course of conversation.
When there is space for it, sometimes what comes up is pain. When the guardrails come down, when grief can be named, when empathy triumphs over discomfort and my authentic self can simply arrive in the room however it might, that is the magic of connection. And sometimes it makes me cry.
It's OK. I've gotten pretty good at having a tissue in my pocket. If it comes up, or even if it doesn't, go ahead and make me cry. Tears, it turns out, are magic.
I hear you, Karen, and I see you. Your grief is always welcome in our conversations, as are your stories about Ryan. I look forward to getting to know him better through your stories, and to having the authentic friendship with you that makes room for grief.
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