The Echoes of Grief

This week, something clicked for me to help explain the funk I've been in that I haven't been able to get myself out of. 

On September 27, 2017, my mom passed away. In the days leading up to her death, I sat vigil at her bedside, shuttling back and forth between the hospice house and the sunset, clinging to those few minutes of soul-connection before returning to mom's bedside to whisper goodnight.

She had slipped into a coma by then. There were no more words, just waiting for what we knew was coming and what we couldn’t control. Waiting for her final breath.

Seven years later, I find myself in a strangely familiar rhythm. My dad is 89. He’s declining. He’s weaker than he was when he fell three months ago and started this latest round of rehab. Once again, I am keeping vigil. I'm visiting, watching, waiting. Different details, same ache.

​In addition, the state of the world is deeply affecting me. 

Yesterday, it all caught up with me. I lost it.

On one hand, I said what needed to be said. I broke through Dad’s denial about how much strength and independence he’s already lost and what that might mean for his next steps. As I reflected on our conversation, I also touched my own fear. I touched the fear of losing my own life and my own freedom in the midst of his process, just as I once lost myself years ago with my mom.

The truth is, I would never trade those final days with her. They were a gift I still hold dear. Even amidst the incoherent mumbling from her last stroke, she had unexplained moments of crystal clarity in which she shared her last words of wisdom with me. I was there when she took her last breath, and that is a memory that is sacred to me.

The same is true for the time I've spent with my dad over the past ten months. I've enjoyed them immensely.  But here’s the other truth: I am not who I was in 2017. I'm eight years older. I am retired now. I sold my retreat center property and finally have the freedom I've worked so hard for all my life. I cannot let myself be swallowed whole again. And yet, there are times when I feel like I'm being swallowed whole all over again.

I’m not going to see Dad today. I need a break. I need a reset. A day just for me with my own thoughts, my own preferences, my own space, my own life. I need a pattern interrupt. I need to name the echo. I need to say out loud: This isn’t 2017. This is now. I am older, wiser, and stronger. and I get to choose how I show up.

It means letting myself honor the grief without drowning in it.
It means remembering that my spark, my life, my needs, my preferences, and my purpose matters too.
It means asking different questions. Perhaps this is a good place to start:  

What if I could honor my dad without losing myself? What does that look like?

If you’re carrying echoes of your own grief, exhaustion, fear, repeating patterns, I invite you to try this with me. Start with one small question. Give your heart a crack of light, a place to rest.

👉 Download my free 3-Question What If Journal here and let it guide you back to yourself, one question at a time. Because even in the midst of waiting, even in the midst of loss, there is still life calling us forward.

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