Grief is a sticky, tangly thing

One of the reasons I think grief is so hard is because it’s kind of sticky. It sticks together with other things, and sometimes it’s hard to untangle them.

I don’t know that there is such a thing as pure grief on its own, because, like most of life, grief is relational. It’s in relationship with everything else that we’re holding. With our thoughts and beliefs, with how we feel about ourselves and the world, with the way we think we should be and the way we think the world should be.

Kind of like love - we might have moments of pure love, but mostly, love is a beautiful tangle of a lot of things. Of longing and joy, appreciation and friendship, lust and desire, deep care and kindness, jealousy and hurt, hope and cascades of magic sparkles.

Grief is like that too, I think. Maybe there’s moments of pure grief, but mostly, it’s a tangle of a lot of things. Sometimes a beautiful tangle, sometimes the tangle feels like the thorn bushes that grew up around sleeping beauty’s castle, full of prickles and discomfort and pain. Of rage and disappointment, love and longing, deep care, relief, sadness, shame, regret, hopelessness, the desire for things to be different, the recognition of endings.

This morning I held a small gathering for grief. And so it’s fitting that this afternoon I am sitting with grief, experiencing my own tangle of thorns, and trying to tease it out a bit as I tend to it.

I thought it might be useful to share some of my process.

First, I had to recognise that I was feeling something that needed my attention. Sometimes this is the hardest step because we’re so used to turning away from the uncomfortable feelings. Distraction and dissociation are my usual paths, but there are many others.

Second, I tried to let it be okay to feel what I was feeling. To acknowledge it was uncomfortable, and to acknowledge that the desire to turn away was present, and to turn towards it anyway, just a bit. It’s uncomfortable and it’s okay that it’s uncomfortable. The discomfort doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong, and it doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with me.

Third, I started to gently untangle what I was feeling. Some of it felt like grief. Some of it felt like regret, some of it felt like shame, and so on. It doesn’t work for everyone, but for me, I find it really helpful to name the different threads in the tangle. It helps me feel a bit more spacious.

Fourth, I started to notice what each thread was asking for. Some of the things were completely contradictory, but I let that be okay. To be seen. To be invisible. To feel grounded. To distract from the discomfort. And so on. And then I could give myself a few of these things. Eat something to feel a bit more grounded, talk to a friend to feel seen, cancel later commitments to feel invisible, promise an evening of disappearing into a book as a distraction.

This wasn’t really a conscious process, it’s more what I found myself doing naturally when faced with discomfort. Which is nice, because in the past I would have probably done something very different. But I thought it might be helpful to write it out, in case you find it useful in some way.

Grief can be a sticky, tangly thing, and it makes sense that we experience it that way. And maybe, with time and patience and company, we can start to untangle it a little, and to bring some love and care to the part of us who grieves.

I think I’ll be offering another grief workshop series coming up soonish - send me a message and let me know if you’d like me to tell you when it’s happening :)