Learning to sit with grief to feel whole

What is something that is heavy, hurts, and heals at the same time?

Hello grief, I believe this seat belongs to you.

It’s not something we talk about often, but it’s something many of us carry.

As I write this to you, I am in the process of grieving. Tears are forming in my eyes. My heart is heavy. There’s a pit in my stomach. There’s a quiet repetition of “why?” in my mind. I’m filled with sadness, but my spirit is also filled with gratitude as I reflect on how blessed I am. Both can exist, and right now, they do.

Recently, our home lost a very special presence, our dog. His passing was sudden and aggressive, and in the aftermath, writing about grief felt necessary, not for explanation, but for survival and healing. I wrote this yesterday, on his birthday. I can’t think of a better way to honor him than to acknowledge how much he has impacted me, even now, in his absence. That’s the kind of legacy I want to leave too, one that helps, heals, and lifts others up long after I’m gone.

As I’ve been grieving, I’ve felt a wide range of emotions. There’s this tension I can’t quite explain. The searing bell curve of “I’m okay” and “I’m not okay.” That wave? It’s uncomfortable. However, I’m learning not to rush past it.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about grief is that it only belongs to loss in the form of death. But I’ve come to see that grief shows up in so many other ways.

I’ve grieved things I didn’t always name right away like…

I’ve learned that all of it deserves a seat at the table. Not to stay forever, but to be acknowledged. To be felt. So that, in time, it can be released.

Another thing I’ve learned is the importance of honesty. Because how can I truly heal and move forward if I’m not honest about what I’m feeling and what I’m carrying? Grief has a way of revealing things. One of the hardest things I’ve had to face is realizing that there have been moments where I wasn’t fully true to myself, where I wasn’t living as authentically as I thought. That’s a hard truth to sit with, but grief has given me the space to do just that.

I also think we’ve been taught, directly or indirectly, that grief is something we should retreat into. That we should hide it. Contain it. Keep it from showing too much. Because if we don’t, it might look like weakness. But I’ve learned that grief requires discernment. It requires knowing who your “safe people” are, the ones who can hold you when you don’t feel whole. Because contrary to what we may believe, we need each other. I know I do. I’m learning to both receive that and be that for others too.

Grief can also be expected and unexpected. Some things we see coming. Some things we don’t. I may not know what’s coming, but I’m holding onto to the comfort that God will be present in it. That doesn’t remove the weight, but it reminds me that I’m not carrying it alone.

Even here, I’m aware of the grace that allows me to take a step.

In the middle of all of this, a lyric found its way to me: “Am I allowed to cry?” I’ve asked myself that more times than I can count. Slowly, gently, I’m learning to answer, yes. Yes, I am. If you need to hear it too, you are allowed to grieve.

Whether it’s something recent or something you’ve buried that needs to be brought to the surface so healing can begin.

It doesn’t need to be understood by others to be valid.

Would it be strange to say that the ability to grieve is, in some way, a gift?  What if grief is doing more than we realize? What if it’s the very thing that’s making us stronger, more resilient, and more aware of a life that isn’t always easy to understand?

I recently heard someone say that scars are evidence of a life well lived. Maybe grief is part of that. Maybe it’s evidence that we loved deeply. That we experienced something real. That something mattered.

You may not feel it right now, but there is a version of you on the other side of this that is stronger, more aware, and more whole.

Not because you rushed through it, but because you allowed yourself to sit with it.

I love you, but God loves you more.

In courage,

Carnell