Grief Comes in Waves

Truth # 8

This year, I turned 45, and I’m starting a writing project to share 45 of the most meaningful lessons I’ve learned over the years. Thank you for joining me on this journey. Read the previous articles here.

Ava: I didn’t know; I haven’t cried yet. When does it, like, hit you?

Deborah: Never all at once, just a bunch of tiny waves. You know, like over and over.

- From Season 1, Episode 10 of Hacks

When the waves rise high, swallowing you whole, sometimes the only thing to do is surrender.

Let them wash over you, carry you to a safer shore, and hold you in their mighty grasp until they gently release you.

My father died exactly a year ago.

I was there when he took his last breath.

My cousin, who was also his doctor, declared the time of death: 4:52 in the afternoon.

My mother, aunts, cousins, caregivers, and I stood around him and said our farewells.

That moment is etched in me.

Grief is like the ocean, my therapist says. Some days, the waves are small, lapping at your feet.

Other days, they are towering walls of water, impossible to outrun.

Elizabeth Gilbert calls it a tsunami.

The truth is, grief is a b*tch.

It crashes into you with no warning, sharp and merciless.

The pain is so strong, you think you won’t survive.

But you do.

You will.

Because love doesn’t die with a person.

It lingers in the in-between places, in the spaces they once filled, in the air you still breathe.

We don’t remember people for their accolades or achievements.
We remember them in the mundane—
The way their bellies heave when they laugh,
The way they walk,
The faraway look in their eyes when they listen to their favorite song.

My father wasn’t one to say I love you.

But in his quiet way, we always knew.
Love lived in his actions, in his presence.

And in his final days, when his body could no longer hold back the tide,
he allowed himself to receive love.
He let us hold his hand.
He let us care for him.

That, too, was a gift.

Grief is waking up in tears because, in your dreams, he was real again.
Grief is crying in the grocery store aisle because a song reminds you of him.
Grief is my niece telling me in utter disbelief, He was just here. And now he’s gone.

Gone where? I still wonder.

You keep living. You move through your days as if they are the same,
but something is missing.
And so you keep speaking his name,
keep weaving him into conversations,
because saying his name is a way of keeping him here.

There is no timeline.
No finish line to cross.

People talk about the “stages of grief,” but I think—
What if we stop trying to categorize it, stop trying to understand it?
What if we just let it be?

The waves keep coming and going.

Some are small, manageable.
Some knock me over, leaving me gasping for air.
Some days, there’s nothing at all, just still water, waiting.

Slowly, I learned to float.
To let the waves carry me instead of fighting them.

Because grief doesn’t go away.

It changes you.

Like the ocean—
Unpredictable.
Ever-changing.
Endless.

And so I surrender.

To the waves.
To love.
To the impermanence of it all.

P.S. If you want to learn simple tools to stay resilient during these times, join me at the Stress & You workshop on April 1. REGISTER HERE FOR FREE.

An Invitation:

• What’s a small, everyday memory of a loved one that stays with you?

• How do you navigate the waves of grief when they come?

---

Note: If you're wondering why you got this email, you probably subscribed to receive updates from me, registered to access a free download, or joined one of my workshops. If you'd rather I didn't email you, you may unsubscribe, although I'll admit I'd love having you around. If not, no hard feelings; you're welcome here anytime. 😊