Navigating Grief Begins With One Step Forward

It doesn’t matter how small or fleeting it was. That first step is huge.

• It means there’s something stirring inside you.

• It means you’re not stuck.

• It means you’re heading in the right direction, even though you feel completely disoriented.

Yesterday was okay. The day before, not so much. A few days before that? Sheer agony, taking you right back to the terrible day your child died. Tomorrow? Who knows? That’s the way grief works. One step forward, two steps back.

There’s no rhyme or reason. Every day is the opposite of a choose-your-own-adventure children’s book. It feels like a new adventure is choosing you. That will change with time, but for now, you’re just along for the ride.

The ride goes round and round, backward and sideways, and does loop-the-loops. It kicks your ass and makes you crazy as you hang on to . . . you’re not even sure what you’re hanging on to anymore.

The ride takes you to places where you’ve never been before, places that scare the crap out of you, places that crack you wide open, but every now and then, the ride slows down for just a moment and you’re able to catch your breath and, almost imperceptibly and mostly unintentionally, take one step forward.

It doesn’t matter how small or fleeting it was. That one step—whatever it is for you—is huge. It means there’s something stirring inside you. It means you’re not stuck. It means you’re heading in the right direction, even though you feel completely disoriented. There’s no telling when or how you’ll arrive at where you’re going, but you’ll know it when you get there.

If all this sounds cryptic, that’s because it is. It’s impossible to get your bearings when you’re staggering around in the dark. And unfortunately, the forecast for the foreseeable future remains pretty much the same: pitch dark and heavy precipitation in most areas. You don’t need a weatherman to tell you that. You know it better than anyone.

But what you don’t know and can’t see right now is the light. You’re trapped inside the awful grief tunnel, but each step forward brings you closer to the shining light at the other end.

Most times, but not always, it’s just a glimmer at first—a memory from long ago that brings a half smile to your face, a song on the radio that makes you well up, an insight gleaned from a TV character who reminds you of your kid—but it’s important to recognize these small sparks of life, to really take them in and feel them in your bones.

Because the glimmers will intensify and become more frequent, eventually turning into sunbeams, and the baby steps will grow into purposeful strides, and one day you’ll stop crying, and then the next day, you’ll laugh more easily, and one step forward will become two steps, and then three, and all of a sudden, you’re not going backward anymore, you’re embracing life like your life depends on it. (It does!)

You’re stronger than you’ve ever been because you’ve endured the worst pain imaginable, and that tragedy has become a vital part of you—forever changed—maybe even for the better. That ineffable something to hang on to turns out to be you, bathing in the warmth of the shining light.

And then you’ll discover that the most extraordinary thing has taken place while you didn’t notice—your heart is no longer vacant. In fact, it’s filled with love again, just like it was when your child was born.

This is where their beautiful souls continue to live on, just like Rob lives on in mine. It doesn’t make me miss him any less, but it’s comforting to know that he’s nearby, just where I need him.

But before any of that can happen, there are thousands and thousands of steps ahead of you.

Larry Carlat - Website - Blog -