The Gift of Grief
Holding space during the holidays
I was having dinner recently with a group of friends when I found myself word-vomiting with a well of tears forming in my eyes and thinking, “How did I find myself making this dinner about my grief?”
When people have asked me about grief, I share with them this poem I wrote around this time of year in 2020:
grief is my oldest friend
one of those friends that you won’t see for years
but when you do, it’s like nothing has changed.
grief is the friend you’re obligated to acknowledge
even when you dont want to.
she’s always been there,
& you’re expected to serve her well.
grief
grief
grief
that’s all she ever brings me
just more and more of herself
with each lengthy visit.
she takes up every spare bed in my home
as i wallow
deep within the belly of this house.
she drives me nuts,
i dont understand her constant need to visit.
she eats everything in the fridge
& cuts my hair impulsively
& makes me forget to take my medicine.
even when she’s not here,
she still looms over my head
like a cloudy sky without rain.
she’s a monster, baring her teeth,
disguised as a friend’s casserole.
she makes me so tired,
i hardly have the energy to get out of bed.
she weighs so much
& cares so little
yet,
she’s my oldest friend
so i make room for her.
I’ve neglected to make room for her lately, hence my sudden outburst at my friend’s birthday dinner. For those who might be new here, or simply don’t know, I lost my sister a little over eight years ago. She was 18, and I was a week away from my 16th birthday. I revealed to my friends the other night my latest epiphany: I was just a kid when I had my first encounter with grief. I was a girl, learning how to cope with a loss that stretches beyond words.
I think about that girl—naive, a bit self-centered, insecure in every way, and truly fearful of the future. She still lives inside of me, carrying all of those things and more, even at 24 years old. I don’t open up easily about losing my sister. I can talk about her, share stories, and give a very surface-level explanation of what occurred that cursed night. But when it comes to peeling back the layers of vulnerability, I tend to change the subject before those questions can be asked. A lot of that has to do with my own regrets—the times I wasn’t the kindest sister to her when I had the chance to be. Another part is the fear of how people might perceive me, and how their views on me could be altered by tragedy. Another part is the desire to avoid awkward encounters when the other party (who likely hasn’t experienced this type of grief) doesn’t know how to respond. And another part is simply not finding it worth the effort to peel back those layers, even to those closest to me—those who want to help.
A lot of times, it doesn’t feel necessary to address, since it’s been eight years, and I’ve learned how to operate (whether efficiently or not) in a world without her. But there’s a time of year—that anyone who’s experienced loss can understand—when any attempt to quiet that greedy, needy Grief fails miserably. When the family comes together, with all of their individual quirks and habits, and suddenly that space in your heart becomes more apparent and more hollow than ever before. I’m well aware of what was once Katie’s place in my family around the holidays. Everybody has their “somebody” to cling to when facing the storm of familial interactions. Mine just happened to have passed away eight years ago. Instead of anchoring into her like I did for the first 15 Christmases of my life, I’ve had to learn to acknowledge when I’ve reached my limit, retreat into privacy, then reemerge when Grief has loosened her grip around my throat. This is how it goes every year, and it hasn’t ever become easier.
In a season where grief is guaranteed, there are few things that help—some are universal, and others are unique to each bereaved individual. I recognize how tricky it is to know how to respond to someone who is grieving (you should hear the things people have said to me, with the purest intentions of easing my suffering lol). Even as someone who has experienced a major loss, I still find myself at a loss for words when someone peels back and exposes their own layer of grief. I’ve noticed that the most seen I’ve felt is not through a response, but by someone simply holding space for my grief. A dear friend of mine said this once, when the topic of grief came up: “I may not fully understand the weight of your experience, but I am more than willing to be a patient, loving witness to your grief.” Something shifted in me when I heard him say this—I can be seen, even by those who don’t “get it.”
It’s a tough season for a lot of us. It’s important for us to find grace for ourselves, and, in turn, for one another. I don’t expect this year to feel any different than the past eight Christmases, but I am trying to find little bursts of joy when I can—watching classic movies with my parents, seeing Wicked (four times, don’t come at me) in theaters with my best friend, making hot chocolate after hot chocolate for little kids at my barista job, driving on the interstate listening to my favorite albums, having birthday dinners with my friends. I hope you take stock of your little bursts of joy this season, even in the midst of holding space for your grief.
Hold your people tight. Take care of one another.
& Happy Holidays. <3
xx
Kimi