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An Open Letter to Grieving Friends

Dear Friends,

You don’t know me personally, but I wanted to share a few thoughts for your grief journey. While we are all in different stages, I believe one thing for sure—the passage of time, an open heart, hard work, and a choice to embrace hope will allow you to survive the most difficult losses. If circumstances are right, you might also find a way to become more than you were before . . . more aware of human frailty, more appreciative of small blessings, more able to love, and more compassionate toward all things, including yourself. Please trust me in saying that grace will return. I have been in a similar place to where you are now.

As I contemplate this letter, I am at the foot of Bromley Mountain in the Green Mountains of Vermont. I am sitting in an old Adirondack chair next to a crackling wood fire. My wife is next to me reading a book. My daughter Meghan, 16, son Zach, 11, and daughter Hannah, 8, are skiing and just waved to us with big smiles from the quad lift. The sun is shining brightly, and it’s unseasonably warm today. Spring is just around the corner. As I take all of this in, the moment offers many blessings. I hear children laughing, and others enjoying this great day. Classic rock music is playing in the background. I see snowboarders in T-shirts. A young mother on cross-country skis just crossed my view. She is pulling an adorable two-year-old child in a wooden sled. This small girl is all decked out in pink. Her feet are up, she is wearing mirrored sunglasses, and her curly black hair peeks out from below the hood. The sight of her reminds me of my own life years ago. This moment offers a cozy, peaceful respite in the midst of late winter. Spring is almost here. Life is good. I feel blessed to be at one with this scene and the greater universe all around me.

We weren’t always able to feel this joy—12 years ago my 15-month-old daughter, Sarah, died in a tragic accidental window fall while we were vacationing at a New Jersey beach. Sarah would be turning 14 this May, which is a fact that never really drifts too far from our thoughts. If you are anything like we were during that first year after Sarah’s death, the lull periods after people had gone back to their lives were the moments where we were hit square in the face with the grief of our loss. Things were at their worst when the funerals concluded, attention lessened, and the many others who were so wonderful during the immediate window after the tragedy began to move on . . . while we were firmly cemented to the tragedy. For us, the hardest time came when things slowed down, and we were left alone to answer the existential question of “Now what?” That was the moment our hard grief work began.

This question is what brings me to this letter. Events over the last few months have seen children taken from us. Violent acts like the Sandy Hook shooting and a local upstate New York car accident that recently killed two high school seniors are just two examples of events that have had a great personal effect. One occurred in the place I chose to settle to further my own journey of healing (New York Capital district), while the other occurred in the area I lived, loved, started my family, and where my own grief journey began (western Connecticut). The interesting point is that when I think about this, we are all family regardless of where we live—while we can’t all fully appreciate every nuance of one another’s pain, we all share emotional proximity through grief, and that is what bonds us together.

So, family . . . a few suggestions for those of you who are battling the pain of recent loss:

  • Try to believe that hope exists despite the pain and confusion you may be experiencing now. You can choose to grow and heal. You will get through this. Joy will return if you let it.
  • Try to focus on individual moments. Many of you likely feel wounded right now. Survival of the bad moments comes through the understanding that everything changes . . . moment by moment. While you may hurt right now, try to hang on with the understanding that something will come along soon to buoy you up, and it will likely happen in the next moment. You may be familiar with the term “one day at a time . . .” For the grieving, shorten it. An hour, a minute, and if need be, seconds are what you may require. Have hope that pain is temporary and everything changes quickly.
  • Try to stay open: When wounded, a natural reaction for people is to close down and hide. Hiding helps us to ignore the pain and stay away from perceived harm. It is also natural that we deflect our pain by judging, blaming, or attaching the cause of our immediate pain to others. When people don’t act the way we think they should, or when someone says something to us that appears insensitive, our inclination may be to judge them. That action, however, works by closing our hearts so we do not feel the full range of emotion, a state that can become toxic over time. Openness, while not always easy, will help us to accept things as they are . . . acceptance will offer new ways to live, and ultimately show us the path to healing.
  • Try to feel—grief is a process: While you are inside your moments of pain and longing, cry. Let go. It’s all okay. Tears are cleansing, and the quiet moments after crying open doors to help us heal. At the same time, remember to hug others. Find support friends. If needed, enlist a professional to listen without judgment. Walk in nature. Write in a journal. Paint something. Draw. Give. Breathe. Listen. Feel. Remember amazing things happen when you sit and take in what is around you. Personally, we focus on both the wind and the light as our source of eternal hope.

In answer to the question, “What now?” I am sorry that I do not have a definitive answer. That said, I believe the ultimate answer lies within each of your hearts, within your spirit, and with the love you hold for your missing loved one. Remember, while the past will not change, every new moment offers a new opportunity. The possibilities of your choices are endless, and they offer an amazing way for you to celebrate the lives of your lost love.

In closing, let me just say that all of what I’ve offered above has been summed up through our own family mantra: “Embrace life.” To us, this means that we live differently now, but we also celebrate with a wisdom and clarity we did not have before Sarah died. We’ve had more children; we’ve moved to undertake new pursuits; we dedicated ourselves to causes (organ donation and grief support). We’ve decided to live in ways that embrace love and compassion, which has been borne from an understanding that while suffering exists, joy is still possible. For all of this, we are able to live an authentic life, a life that is better than we imagined it could ever be after our loss.

 

 

 

 

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Comments (6)

  • Thank you with all that I have. You have given me hope that I wasn’t sure existed anymore. A day doesn’t pass without thinking “one more day; one more hour.”

  • Thank you so much for this letter, it gives me hope for the future, I lost both my sons in a car accident 11 August this year, it is really hard to believe that I will ever enjoy life again,
    I am at the what now stage, who do I wake up for I the morning, they were my life, everything I did was for them, so what now,how do I go on from now?
    You gave me hope with this letter, and I thank you again, I will hang on tight until I get to where I gan live again!
    Kind regards
    Natasja Crous.

  • Simply beautiful, thank you for sharing these deepest and encouraging thoughts of your grieving heart. ❤️

  • I lost my 27 year old son to cancer about 4 months ago I’m struggling my anxiety is so bad i don’t know how to funtion with day to day life, but i have to I have two other daughters and two beautiful grandkids but it’s just heartbreaking

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