On Grief and Growth

At first the waves are relentless, one after the other, knocking you down so hard you don’t know which way is up. When you think you can’t take any more, another wave is already on top of you, smashing your face into the sand so hard that you can’t breathe. Are you dead? You almost wish you were so the pain would come to an end.

Then, she begins to calm, and the waves die down, giving you enough time to stand up and wipe the sand from your lips and cheeks. You look into the distance and see only flat water, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Thank God. It’s over.

You turn your back and begin to walk away. But after just a few steps, you hear a haunting rumble behind you. Slowly, you turn your head to look but by then it’s too late – a tsunami engulfs you, dragging you out to sea and then toward the bottom of the ocean.

At first you resist. After all, the bottom of the ocean is dark, suffocating and heavy. You fight the water as it pulls you down, down down. But your muscles quickly exhaust, leaving you no other choice but to accept your fate. The light from the surface fades into total darkness as you continue to plummet.

Eventually, the pulling stops. This is what you feared, this is what you resisted and now you are here. Yes, it is painful and yes, it is heavy. But there is also peace to it. It’s quiet. Nothing more can hurt you when you’re at the bottom of the ocean. You feel alone but connected, hopeless but accepting. Nothing makes sense down here, but you understand all of it.

After a timeless amount of time, you pick yourself up off the kitchen floor. Through glazed eyes, you grab a tissue, humbly aware that the next set of waves is on the horizon. But until then, you do your best to continue the day.