Your grief in the dark, dreary days of winter

Listen, I am naturally an optimist. I really do see the silver lining the majority of the time. However. Here in Southeastern Pennsylvania, it has been dark and dreary and rainy for what feels like years (I also can be a little dramatic). When the weather is like this, it’s nearly impossible to remember that the days are actually getting longer; that soon we’ll spring forward; that winter actually does not last forever. Don’t get me wrong, all of those counter thoughts can be helpful. After all, nothing hard lasts forever!

That being said, this is a really difficult time for a lot of my clients.It’s especially difficult for those who are sick or old or grieving (or all three), isolated by those circumstances and the addition of bad weather. The usual self-care suggestions fall flat this time of year. Go outside! It’s disgusting out, no thank you. See friends! People can’t always drive in inclement weather. Or they don’t feel particularly social when they’ve been hanging on to a chest cold for a month. Exercise! Ugh. Don’t even get me started.

I don’t mean to say you should avoid all those things and hibernate for the winter. If you can find the energy and motivation to do that stuff, then you’re in better shape than me! Go forth on the journey. For the rest of us, let me just validate that it’s harder to do the usual self care stuff when the weather is bad, as it has been here. When it’s harder to make ourselves feel better, we can get caught in a shame cycle: “I should be doing X but I don’t feel like it, I’m useless/lazy/awful/whatever.” I’m here to tell you, you are not useless or lazy or whatever other horrid adjective you want to use to describe yourself. You are a normal person having a normal reaction to a very long and dreary time of year.

And if you are grieving, whether it’s the first year or the fifth or the fifteenth, you may find that your grief is heavier than usual. No matter how long it’s been, that is normal. Grief can be exacerbated by any number of things, including but not limited to post-holiday blues, gross winter weather, and increased isolation.

So if you are having a harder than usual time right now and all the usual coping skills are falling flat, I have good news: the days are getting longer. Soon we’re going to spring forward. Winter doesn’t last forever. And neither will this hard time. While it lasts, consider reaching out to someone—a friend, a therapist, some nice strangers on the internet—and let them share the burden. You don’t have to do this alone.

Holiday creep

A colleague of mine recently referred to this time of year as the therapist Olympics. Most of our clients are a little more… unhinged than usual. Rightly so! Days are shorter and colder. Families of origin repeat patterns that range from frustrating to harmful. Sobriety is tested. Finances are tight. Grief is magnified. Caregiving is harder than usual. Basically The Holidays amplifies whatever was already difficult to navigate. While the culture at large insists upon sparkle and glamor and gratitude and consumerism and food and booze in excess, some of us are struggling. 

There are any number of lists out there about how to combat the holiday blues. Of course I agree with most of them: be mindful of how much you're drinking; keep moving your body; make time for yourself, etc. But I also want to add my usual caveat: it's ok to be struggling. In fact, many people are at this time of year. I bet if you admit to someone close to you (or even someone in line at the grocery store honestly) that you aren't filled with joy right now, they would agree. You’re not alone if you’re not feeling sparkly.

If you feel like you are alone in those feelings, it's tempting to self isolate. People are often afraid of spreading their anxiety or sadness to others and instead opt to keep it to themselves. Sometimes time alone does help, and if that helps you, go nuts. But also remember that distress and grief and anxiety are better shared with others. It lightens the load to let someone else know that you aren't filled with the Spirit of the Season. It's ok if holidays are a tough time for you; they’re tough for a lot of us. Take a chance and let someone know you need support. 

(Also make sure you keep your appointment with your therapist).

How the dead visit us

I want to tell you a ghost story. 

As loyal readers will remember, my mom died when I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. Since my mom was no longer physically present, my husband and I made a point to talk about Nanny as much as possible. This way, our baby (and then her sister) would know she had another grandparent, even if she only knew her in pictures and stories (of which, thank God, there are many). 

But, because kids are spooky, it turns out she could see my mom. At least once. This is the ghost story: I was holding my toddler in my arms when she looked right over my shoulder at a fixed point and said, “Nanny?” I turned around faster than I ever had in my life and said, “Mom?”

No answer. Very annoying.

But I am positive she was in the room with us. I know some people don’t believe me when I tell this story. I can’t provide any evidence that it happened. I don’t need to. In that moment, I know my daughter saw my mom; I felt it in my bones. Whether it happened “in real life” or I invented it in my grief, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it helped me.

My clients sometimes hesitantly share their own ghost stories. There are a variety of ways they offer these anecdotes, ranging from uncertainty to joy and relief. Sometimes they’re recounting a vivid dream or lights flickering or butterflies at unexpected times. Whatever it is, when they ask me, “do you think it’s really them?” I answer, yes. And also, does it matter? 

What matters is that the dead are with us, whether in our imagination or memory or in the actual house or air. They show up in ways profound or small, inexplicable or clear. You can believe in ghosts or not; what’s important is how those experiences make you feel. And if you haven’t had a spooky visit, ask for one. Maybe the dead don’t answer in words but I do think they’re listening.

When to say, "that's not helpful"

The people who love us are (generally) well meaning. They want us to feel well, as a rule, and they often have a good idea of what that looks like. Or, they think they have a good idea. Often when you’re grieving, someone who loves you wants to help you by telling you what they think is a great idea. For instance, “[your loved one] would want you to be happy/live your life/not dwell on the past.” Or, “it’s been six months/a year/so long, it’s time to move on with your life.” They make these pronouncements as if they’ll magically snap you out of your grief and back into the world.

I don’t think I need to tell you, that’s not how grief works.

What I do need to tell you is this: it is ok to tell someone they aren’t helping. You don’t have to be unkind or snappish or rude. You can, however, set a boundary and tell them the truth: “that’s not helpful.”

In a previous post about boundaries, I noted that it can be hard to say something we know the other person doesn’t want to hear. People don’t like to be criticized, especially when they’re sure they’re right. That doesn’t mean that your emotional needs have to go ignored in service of not making someone briefly uncomfortable. In fact, someone who loves you and wants you to be well should be able to hear you tell them “that’s not helpful” without losing their shit about it.

It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since your bereavement or what the deceased would or would not say about how you’re handling it. What matters is that you’re getting real, actual support from the people around you. Sometimes that means telling them what you need–and what you don’t.

Should you forgive or stay angry?

When I first started as a hospice social worker, I had this vision in my head of the deathbed. In this fantasy of mine, the soon-to-be bereaved are with the dying and everyone is saying whatever needs to be said. It was a very pretty picture. But it didn’t take too long in real life practice to see that vision vanish.

Don’t get me wrong, it does happen sometimes, that everyone says the Four Things: I love you, I’m sorry, I forgive you, thank you. I’ve facilitated those conversations, I’ve witnessed them, and they are truly beautiful. But more often than that, a lot goes unsaid and unresolved. Maybe it’s because everyone thinks there will be more time; or there’s a fear of upsetting each other; or it’s just too hard to start the conversation. Then the person dies and the bereaved are left with whatever went unsaid or unresolved or unforgiven.

Also, not everyone who dies is saintly, or unconditionally lovable. Difficult people die too. They have loved ones who are left with complicated feelings. They have loved ones who are angry or hurt and now there can’t be a resolution. Maybe there couldn’t be a resolution when the person was alive either but once they’re dead, there’s really no way. In that case, what do we do? Should we forgive or stay angry?

I’ll answer this question with one of my own (just call me Socrates): who is forgiveness for? Is it for the person who’s wronged you? They don’t always want your forgiveness, and when they’re dead they certainly don’t care anymore (I imagine; I guess I’ll find out for sure one day). If it’s not for them, can it be for you?

You’re allowed to hold on to your anger for as long as you want. Even if the person you’re angry at can’t fight with you about it anymore, you are allowed to keep being mad. But everything has its tipping point. One day your anger won’t serve you anymore. Then you can consider forgiveness, if not for someone else, then for yourself.

The Good, Medium, and Bad days checklist

One truth about both grief and chronic pain (my two areas of expertise) is that some days are good, some days are bad, and some days are neither. Categorizing the days that way isn’t my attempt to judge them, though that’s what it sounds like. Instead, it’s my way of helping my clients figure out how to manage based on what kind of day (or moment) they’re having.

I hear a lot from my clients about whether or not they’re being “productive.” This is a word I hate. You are not a factory that has to churn out a certain amount of parts every day in order to keep functioning. You are a person who sometimes has easy days and sometimes has hard ones. If you are living with chronic pain or suffering a bereavement, you are allowed to not “accomplish” something every minute of every day, or even once every day. Sometimes it’s a struggle to wash your hair or make an important phone call or exercise. It’s ok for even “easy” things to be hard. 

Easy for me to say, right? We get a lot of messages about our worth from a lot of different sources and for most of us, it boils down to this idea of productivity. I can’t undo any of that just by telling you it’s ok to have a bad day. What I can do is offer an alternative to the self-berating some people do when their pain or their grief prevents them from being productive. 

Instead of starting with judgment (“I didn’t do anything today, I’m useless, I wish I had…” etc.), start with making a list. Actually, make three lists: what can I do on a good day? What can I do on a bad day? What can I do on a medium day? A bad day might consist only of eating and drinking and brushing your teeth. A good day might be an endless list of possibilities. There’s no right or wrong, only what you are capable of doing depending on what kind of day you’re having.

This might sound kind of silly but let me explain how it can help. If the only things on the list on a bad day are tasks you’re able to complete, you cannot berate yourself for not doing more. You did the things you were able to do on this particular day. On the flip side, the list of good day activities doesn’t have to be wholly completed on a good day. It can be filled with options: a good day might mean taking a walk with a friend or sitting down to pay bills but it doesn’t have to be both of those. There will be more good days to do more things on the list. 

Changing the way we view ourselves and our worth is not a quick fix; it’s an ongoing practice made of many small habits and tasks. Instead of the usual cycle of self-recrimination, try something new. Make a list. Give yourself grace. Better days will come.

Decision fatigue and grief

One of the perks of being married is that you don’t have to make all the decisions yourself. For most couples, the labor is divided, either out loud or by silent agreement and habit building over the years. It goes beyond who does the dishes and who mows the lawn. It’s also who knows what to do when an appliance needs to be serviced or replaced; who keeps track of the appointments and the birthdays and the finances; who does what in the household. 

When someone is widowed or divorced, they become the sole responsible party in their household. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard, “I don’t know where all the accounts are” or “I don’t know who the electrician is” from my bereaved clients. If you’ve built a life with someone else, chances are you’ve shared the responsibilities. Therefore, finding yourself alone, having to make all the decisions without someone else’s guidance or input, can feel exhausting.  

This is a kind of decision fatigue. Decision fatigue isn’t unique to grief but it is part of it. When the furnace breaks or you’ve forgotten to schedule an annual physical because the other person used to do that stuff, it’s a reminder of who is missing. The bereaved expect the bigger grief landmines: holidays and birthdays, for example. The other moments—the smaller ones, like “my husband always” or “my partner used to”—are less expected. In those moments, your loss may be more keenly felt. When they pile up, one after another, the idea of making yet another decision can feel absolutely paralyzing.

If you find that you’re struggling with decision making during your grief, you’re not alone. Decision fatigue is a normal part of the process but you don’t have to just live with it. This is your gentle reminder to ask for help when you feel overwhelmed. You can’t replace the person who did the things you don’t know how to do (or just don’t want to do); but at least you can tell someone else that you’re struggling and ask them to help you. You will not be stuck here forever; but while you are, let someone lead you out, at least a little.

Your therapist believes in you

At our lowest moments, it’s hard to believe we will ever feel better. This is especially true when we get hit by a giant wave of grief. Long-time readers of this blog will remember the ocean metaphor: your grief is like ocean waves. You can be standing at the edge of the ocean for a long time with only little waves at your feet and then suddenly a major one comes and knocks you over. You didn’t see it coming so it knocks you to the ground with its force, or swallows you up. Temporarily. The ocean is not always giant, knock-down waves, right? Likewise, your grief will not always swallow you with its magnitude.

That’s easy to forget though, especially when you’re experiencing a big wave. This is where your therapist really comes in handy, especially if you’ve been seeing each other for awhile. You may not remember being here before, but I do. I also remember that you didn’t stay here forever. I remember that we got through the last wave and I believe we’ll get through the next one, even if you don’t.

Hope is hard to reach for when you’re struggling. But it’s also why I’m still a therapist. I really do believe that people can get better, that things will not always feel so incredibly difficult. The great thing about therapy is, you’re not alone, especially in those very bad times. We’ve been here before; we’ll find the way out again, together.

Caring for yourself as you grieve

It is easy to list for ourselves all the things we didn’t start or finish in any given day. “I should have called my sister/run a load of laundry/exercised today;” the list is endless. When we are grieving or in a depression or having big anxiety, the list also comes with some serious self-judgment: what is wrong with me? Why can’t I do anything?

In those moments, I invite you to remember that there are very few things you must do every day. You have a set of basic needs: food, water, and shelter. If you’re really feeling ambitious, you can add personal care (showering, brushing your teeth) and socialization (as much of it as you can handle; even just texting someone hello is good enough here). On days when your emotions are heavy, when you are weighed down by grief or pain, you do not have to accomplish anything except very basic self care.

Self care conjures up images of bubble baths and good chocolate. That’s lovely but it’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about some Maslow’s hierarchy of needs stuff. Remember your intro to sociology class? I shall refresh your memory, just in case:

See how those physiological and safety needs are at the bottom? That’s because you can’t reach the other levels without first meeting the basic needs. It’s easy to get lost in the weeds, especially when we are not well. Instead of berating yourself for not doing enough, look at what you can do: get out of bed; feed and water your body; try to connect with another human being or a pet or a plant or a book. Focus on what you need to stay alive. Everything else can be done tomorrow.

Find the light

It has been literally quite dark the past few days here in the Philly suburbs. Between the rain and the time of year, the sun feels like a distant memory at the moment. However! It is also the holiday season, which means there is (other) light everywhere. There are intricate light displays on homes and businesses. There are sparkles and sequins in shop windows. There can be candlelight. There is brightness to combat the dark.

You don’t have to celebrate a religious holiday this time of year to bask in the glow. Light can be found and celebrated without having to subscribe to Christmas or Hanukkah. It can be found in being with others; in volunteering your time or money (if you have it to give); in window shopping; in fancy light displays or wandering through your neighborhood. In the cold, wet winter—when it is mostly dark and often difficult because of grief or family or winter blues or any number of other things—I want to remind you that you deserve some light. If you can’t find it, create it. If that’s beyond you right now, ask someone else to help. And remember, darkness passes.

Have a joyful holiday season—and if that’s beyond you as well, just get through it. Wishing you all light and lightness as we enter the new year.

Creative ways to explore your grief

People who are grieving often ask, "what should I be doing?" Usually I reject the premise of the question: there's nothing to do except experience your grief. You have to feel your feelings, even (especially) the hard ones.

That being said, I do appreciate the idea that there should be an action that accompanies grief, something to help move through it. There are any number of options in that vein. What follows here is a (small and not at all comprehensive) list of creative ways to experience and honor your grief. If they make you feel weird or too silly, don’t do them! But let me encourage you to consider doing something a little different (and maybe a little weird) in order to give your grief the attention it deserves.

1. Write a letter to your person. It can be about whatever you want: a list of things you miss about them; an update about the family; a rehashing of an old argument. You can write as much or as little as you want. You can burn it after it's done or tuck it away or share it with others. The object here is to connect with the person you love and miss, keeping a part of them alive for yourself.

2. Tend to a plant. I say "a plant" because I have a black thumb, not a green one, so an entire garden feels off-putting to me personally. But maybe gardening is your thing! Take your grief there. Tend to the living, green things; put your hands in the dirt. Talk to the flowers.

3. Write a song or a poem or a haiku or paint a picture. It doesn't have to be Pulitzer or museum-worthy. It doesn't have to be shared with anyone else, though it can be. Again, the only objective is to take some intentional time with your loss and find what’s beautiful in it.

4. Make a shrine. (This is my personal favorite). It can look any way you want. It can be tucked away in a corner or right in the doorway of your home. It can have pictures and ticket stubs or candles and symbols. Spend some time building it and looking at it so you can honor the memory of this person that you love so much. It’s a gift for you both.

Remember, in grief there is no way out but through. You may as well find a way to make the journey a little more interesting. And if you’re feeling particularly brave, share what you’ve created. I, for one, would love to see it.

When grief is bittersweet

I took my daughters on a walk in the woods the other day and happened upon some birds taking a bath in a stream. My very first thought was, “I have to call Mom.” Almost simultaneously, I remembered that I can’t call her; she’s been dead for more than seven years.

But she popped into my head in that moment because she used to tell this story about me waiting next to my grandparents’ birdbath to see the birds. There’s even a picture to commemorate the story: three year old me in a pink winter coat, staring determinedly at the (very empty) birdbath. My mom told me how they tried to convince me that I was too close and the birds wouldn’t come but I waited and waited anyway. She loved telling that story. So when I came upon those robins bathing in the stream while I walked with my own children, I was seized with the desire to call my mother to tell her, I finally managed to catch the birds in the act.

It was sad, obviously, to realize I couldn’t actually call her. But what a lovely moment, to forget for just a split second—to have her be so alive to me still.

This is what I mean when I describe grief as bittersweet. The long, winding road of bereavement is filled with these moments: listening to a song that reminds you of your person; finding their handwriting in an old card; hearing a story you’d forgotten or never known about them. It’s sad, of course, but it’s lovely too, that the person you lost is still with you.

Grief isn’t all sharp edges and painful black holes—though those are part of it. It can also be a gift. Let it be. Let your heart feel full, even if it hurts. Find the sweetness in your grief.

Grief can be complicated

For many of us, grief is straightforward: we feel sorrow and sadness and our loved ones can understand our mourning process. For other people, it’s much more complicated than that. If there are past traumas, if you were estranged from the person who died, if the relationship was challenging or abusive, your bereavement is not a straightforward period of sorrow and sadness. And because your grief isn’t typical, it can feel isolating and confusing.

It isn’t easy to talk about this kind of complicated grief with others, even those who know you well. That old adage, “don’t speak ill of the dead” is deeply ingrained in us. When someone dies, it’s tempting to only view them fondly and warmly; they can’t defend themselves from criticism anymore so the default is to not criticize. But death does not make saints of everyone. Sometimes people are abusive or addicted or they made mostly bad choices, or they were barely present at all. Then, when they die, it’s difficult to find the right words to explain your grief.

The good news is, you don’t have to explain your grief (or lack thereof) to anyone. You don’t have to be sad about someone’s death if ultimately their death is a relief to you. Instead, your grief can be about what you never had from that person, and what they will never be able to repair for you. You can decide how you want to forgive them—if that’s what you want. You can decide how to move forward and how to mourn. Your loss is your own. Your grief is your own. Other people don’t have to understand it or accept it.

Photo by Ian Stauffer on Unsplash

When someone we love is suffering

The problem with loving someone—there are many but let’s start with this one—is that sometimes the person you love will suffer. They will have pain or disease or grief or distress and you will not be able to magically take it away from them. Watching someone you love suffer, physically or emotionally, is awful. And yet, it’s part of the whole deal.

Once, after my mom died, I told a colleague, “I just don’t want my brother and my dad to be sad.” I ended up laughing instead of crying because of the way my sweet colleague stared at me and said, “Elizabeth.” It was, in fact, a bonkers thing to say. It was also true. My own grief was hard enough to bear; I couldn’t stand that the people I love were also suffering.

This is a common theme for my clients, whether they are caretakers or bereaved. Their own grief is awful, all-consuming, exhausting; and yet, they cannot bear to think that other people in their life are also having a hard time. Ignoring the grief and pain of others is doable but doesn’t feel great and also can be hurtful to said loved ones. On the other hand, taking on the pain of others also feels awful and doesn’t take anyone’s pain away. So what to do?

The answer, of course, depends: on what kind of day you’re having; on how the relationship usually functions; and on the cues you’re getting from the other person or people. But in general, as I’ve written ad nauseum, our grief is much easier to bear if it’s shared. You are not protecting your loved ones if you deny your grief or theirs. On the contrary, talking about it opens the door gives them permission to grieve with you instead of protecting you.

We don’t want the people we love to suffer but they will; that’s a part of life. And if that’s true, we may as well suffer together.