“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they said.
That first year, and second, I heard those heartfelt wishes from my family and friends, knowing they had the best of intentions. I’d smile and say, “Thanks, you too.” That’s all I could manage. I couldn’t even say the words “merry” or “happy” without choking on them.
As a newly grieving mom, those best wishes didn’t make me feel merry or happy. They made me feel unsupported and misunderstood. Invisible, even…
Read MoreIt took me almost five years to be able to eat gnocchi again; as much as I loved it, it made my heart sad to even see it on a menu. Sometimes, I avoided looking at the whole page that held the word “gnocchi” because I just couldn’t bear it. Other times, I was composed enough to quickly skip past the offending word, nestled as it was between pappardelle and radiatore. It wasn’t a huge loss, really. I rarely ordered gnocchi from a restaurant anyway. I never understood who would want a peasant’s potato pasta when there were duck or seafood options.
Of course, that was part of the appeal for my son, Tristan…
Read MoreThe sun shines through a frenzy of cherry blossoms and long-naked trees are decked out in chartreuse leaf buds. I feel like I can breathe again. And I do, deeply. I breathe in the sunshine and it fills my heart with joy. I breathe out the long dark winter and create room for more sunshine and joy.
And yet I grieve.
This spring, I have a new kitten and a year-old goldendoodle pup. They’re hilarious!…
Read MoreAbout eighteen months after my son died, I decided to try a yoga class. A chose a nice restorative stretch class; nothing energetic or taxing, just something to nurture my soul. Wrapped in the warmth of the room, surrounded by women each on their own path to wellness, feeling my breath and my body in a way I hadn’t for ages—it was exactly what I needed. Until I was resting in savasana at the end of class and the instructor (a bubbly young thing in her twenties) invited us to reach to sky and repeat after her, in a loud and confident voice, “I love my life!”
I almost gagged…
Read MoreMy grief is like a living purple heart tucked safely inside a treasure chest. The heart itself is made of the beautiful love I have for my son; my own fragile and shattered heart, torn by self-doubt and sorrow; and the pulsating power that is grief.
I keep it in a special hand-crafted treasure chest, custom-made to honour my grief, lined with the softest cream velvet. I don’t leave it unattended, but take it out frequently. Sometimes, we sit together peacefully without words, and sometimes we reminisce about happier times or have deep philosophical conversations in a futile effort to find meaning…
Read MoreI’ve always been open-minded. The continuation of Spirit; the connection of all things through a Universal energy; the afterlife—seems perfectly probable to me. But I grew up in a family that worshipped science and scorned anything “other worldly”, so it’s not a viewpoint I’ve shared much. Until now.
I choose to believe in life after death in part because of the overwhelming and often inexplicable anecdotal evidence, the personal experiences I’ve had since my son died (of which I’ve had plenty), and also because of a very sound, scientifically-proven reason: it’s good for me…
Read MoreI first heard about the “spiritual principles” when my son, Tristan, was active in Narcotics Anonymous (NA), learning to live in a way that granted him some peace in his daily life. We were both inspired by people who put these principles into practice and how—day after day, year after year, decade after decade—they became the foundation for a life very much worth celebrating. Despite the many challenges that some of these people faced.
Those spiritual principles are…
Read MoreI’m one of the hundreds of thousands of North American mothers who grieve for a child lost to addiction, overdose, or drug poisoning. Our collective grief is staggering. Our strength, inspiring. Yet every one of us carries our grief differently, and there’s a reason for that.
My son’s death knocked me off a path I was purposefully walking upon...
Read MoreI’m writing this in the darkest part of the year. Literally (winter solstice) and emotionally (holiday times are tough for me, in my grief). And I’m thinking about how complicated joy can be.
I never thought much about joy until my son, Tristan, died, just over four years ago and, since then, it’s been quite a journey. I’ve grasped for joy, felt guilty about feeling joy, rejoiced at the power of joy, been grateful for every moment of joy, and have begun—again—to take joy for granted. And I hate that, because taking anything for granted reduces its power to brighten our life, to feel it deeply, and appreciate it fully…
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