God, it appears that I’m making it. I rise each day, take care of what is needed, find healthy ways to express myself.
So I pass grief with flying colors, right?
I’ll be fine until I see a photo or have a memory or listen to a song from 1975. I’ll be relaxed until something – like a drive or a conversation – takes me back to that chilly September morning. I’ll be traveling home and the warming sunset reminds me of his love of photographing dusks.
Then my heart shudders with the notion that I won’t see him again on this side of heaven. My brain slides back into a dense fog as it tries to protect my soul from intense feelings of loss. My body aches from the heaviness that comes with this extra emotional weight.
And I am reminded again that grief is always a lifelong journey. Completion of this process doesn’t happen here. It’s not a destination. Overcoming it will never happen. There is nothing to win, and I will not get a medal when surviving.
And yet, I’m making it. Fifteen minutes at a time, God, we are making it. For that unremarkable significant victory, I am grateful.