Faithful Paradox

There are parts of grief I thought I understood yet now realize I did not know as much as I believed. Before losing my son, I understood cognitively that loss changes a person. How could it not? Having a masters in counseling, I even studied grief and its effect on people. I understood as much as I could, having never walked through major loss myself.

What I understand now, however, is that grief not only changes you as a person, but it also changes the way you engage the world; the way you view all of life. It seems to change a person at the cellular level; nothing is ever again the same. What I didn’t understand, if I’m honest, is that in many ways, this change feels like another piece of loss. I didn’t comprehend the feeling of strangeness that settles in; how I feel unfamiliar even with myself.

We just passed three and a half years since Ezra went to heaven. The first two years for me were marked by solitude and silence. Those were the only spaces I felt like I could breathe; where I could endure the sorrow I feared might crush me.

Interacting with people exhausted me. Having things on the calendar exhausted me. Groups exhausted me. Holidays exhausted me. Anticipation of dates exhausted me. Talking about Ezra exhausted me. Not talking about Ezra exhausted me. The first two years after loss, for me, felt like a cruel marathon that had no finish line. Every piece of me felt bone weary, downcast, and simply brokenhearted.

After the first two years I started to notice my capacity began to rally the tiniest bit. While large groups still drained me, I could endure them a bit longer; at least I no longer avoided them altogether. Holidays and special dates still came with a weightiness that required emotional stamina (if I’m honest, they still do), but I also felt I was able to recover more quickly than I could previously. The spaces that felt exhausting were simply not as difficult as they were previously and for this, I was extremely thankful.

What I find now, however, is that more than three years past the date of loss I still feel deeply disoriented, far more disoriented than I would have ever guessed. Many days, I still simply feel lost.

While some capacity has returned, it is still much less than it used to be. I find most days I am still unsure how to manage the capacity I do have. I still tend to get exhausted very easily. Early on, I assumed I would eventually return back to who I was before we lost Ezra, but am realizing now that parts of who I was also seemed to have died when we lost him.

I find my bandwidth to engage people is still very small and many days I struggle to discern what is too much for me. I have always been an introvert and within that, there have always been small pockets of people that have felt life-giving and safe. I find now, however, those pockets of people have become even smaller and more select.

I can once again have things on my calendar without feeling the dread that used to come with meetings. I find now, however, that I also need to plan for margin; far more than I ever had to before. Yet in many ways, I still feel unsure about how much margin I need. One day, an activity can leave me feeling drained quickly while other days, I seem to have margin left doing the exact same thing. I am learning that much of it revolves around what grief is doing within my own heart and in my family on any given day. The difficulty of grief, still years past the day of loss, is that I never know when it will show up or when it will leave. I never know when the kids I still have at home are going to have a really hard day missing Ezra. There are still days I need to set aside all that I had planned to engage grief; whether my own or to be with my kids as they work through their ongoing sorrow.

The most difficult part of grief for me in the midst of the third year is the uncertain nature of when it chooses to arrive and when it chooses to leave. I did not realize that even more than three years past the date of loss, how much grief would still be a part of the story. It still affects me deeply and I never know when it will require extra time and energy to navigate its weight.

For two years, solitude and silence were like a warm blanket to help me endure the weight of grief. I find that now those spaces feel more like mild sand paper. For months after we first lost Ezra, there was so little comfort to be found. I learned I could at least endure each day if I had some measure of quiet, alone time. Now many days are still full of the stillness yet the comfort that used to accompany the quiet is no longer there. The silence now brings with it an unwelcome restlessness. The tension comes, however, in being unsure about what I need and also recognizing that I don’t have the capacity to do more. It’s frustrating to feel restless yet also be confronted with limitations that feel foreign and unfamiliar.

There are many other things that have changed as well. I used to be an avid reader and I still struggle now to pay attention while I’m reading. I used to be very detailed oriented and now I struggle to pay attention to details. I used to remember dates and appointments easily and now I struggle to keep them straight. I used to host a lot in my home and now I struggle to open the doors of my home as frequently. The list could go on, but the reality is that I did not realize how much loss actually changes a person and how those changes bring with them another sense of loss.

Grief and loss bring a very real sense of feeling disoriented for far longer than I understood. I knew this cognitively before walking this road, yet now I understand it deep in my bones. I did not understand that it’s a journey of fighting to press forward, but as I press forward, everything is different. I am different. The way I engage the world is different. The things I need are different.

I imagine this is all part of the healing process, yet in many ways, these spaces feel like more loss, more confusion, rather than a comforting assurance. Walking through loss changes a person. While I am confident that God is creating something that will look more like Christ through that change, there is now a strangeness to what once felt familiar. It’s a process that requires an additional piece of grieving and letting go. It’s part of the journey I did not understand.