The Backpack of Grief

And why it might be ok to lighten the load

My friend Dawn and I have a running joke around our differences in preparation and packing. Whenever we go anywhere, even if it's just for a short meeting, Dawn invariably arrives with at least two tote-bags filled with all variety of supplies, papers, and various objects that just might be useful or needed. She's the ultimate prepared mom, never caught without a bottle of water and a snack for everyone. I sometimes bring my purse, and often have just my keys and my phone stuffed into a pocket. That way, I can watch her stuff for her, and help her carry it all back to the car when we are done. I'm a notoriously light packer. When planning for a trip, I bring exactly enough clothing and supplies for the time I will be gone, and not one item more. If I have anything left over at the end, I feel like I've overpacked.

For years I was a mom, and I carried things. My things, my kids things, everyone's things. I carried Band-Aids, snacks, spare changes of clothes, and things to keep people occupied and out of boredom-induced trouble. I had baby wipes for dirty hands, on the way home from the barn. I had craft supplies. I had books, lots of books.

These days, I mostly carry grief.

It's a heavy weight, this grief. Like an overstuffed hiking pack, it makes every step heavier. I felt that it was my duty, as a mom, to keep on carrying it. It came along on all my journeys, came up in all my conversations, and filled all my thoughts. Like a filter over a camera lens, everything was colored with grief. My friends have been asked to watch this bag for me, and carry it for me when it gets too heavy. Because they are so very kind, they have done so, usually without complaint. After all, don't I deserve continued sympathy?

It seemed disloyal to feel any other way, as if giving myself permission to feel joy, to be alive again in the midst of this loss somehow meant that I didn't love my children, that I had deserted them in some way. Maybe it's some sort of survivor's guilt. I've asked other moms who are enduring the loss of their kids to the gender cult, and they invariably tell me that they have felt the same way. When grief and memories are the only connection that is left, what happens if I give myself permission to let go of that grief? It feels like I'm abandoning my children somehow, as if my continued sadness somehow proves my love and commitment to them. As time goes by, I realize that this isn't rational, nor is it helpful. My friends are being asked to watch my stuff for me. They protect me from their own struggles, because we all engage in comparison, and after all they still have kids, and grandkids, so my pain always wins, if there's a hierarchy of suffering. It means I'm not emotionally available for them. I may smile when they show me the pictures of the new grandbabies, but inside I'm grumbling. Why did they deserve this, and I didn't?

It's often said that grief has no timeline. Ambiguous grief is even more wiggly. That does not mean that it can't be worked through, or that I'm obligated to be sad for the rest of my life. I've often thought that I will be, that I will be overwhelmingly caught up in this cycle, unless something changes. But it is a choice, actually. I can choose to slip the pack off, to smile, to rejoice, to love. I can choose to go on living, in a meaningful and rich way. It doesn't mean that this loss is one bit less impactful. It only means that I don't have to view every moment, through that lens.

Are you carrying this load as well? Let’s try slipping it off. Let’s give ourselves permission to live life again, to heal, to laugh, to feel. It doesn’t mean we won’t feel the grief. It only means we don’t have to, at least not all the time.