I have a friend in her 70s who recently lost her husband.  She was sharing how she had been handling the loss, and, knowing that I lost my son, she said . . . of course, your grief is going to be different, as a parent who lost a child who never got to live a long, full life.  I nodded and continued to listen, but in retrospect, I wished I had said  to her . . . your grief is just as valid as mine.  The bond you shared with your husband was your own and I can’t even begin to guess what was or was not severed.  But, just like mine, your grief doesn’t have to last forever.  You can live out the rest of your life with more joy than you’ve ever experienced before. 

Your grief is valid.  It is also replaceable.  I am not an expert.  I don’t claim to have all the answers.  This is just my experience.  What I’ve been told, what I’ve chosen to believe.  It is one journey.  My journey.   And that’s all.   And I feel compelled to share it.  If it informs or inspires you, it is my gift to you.  If it frustrates or angers you, know that I still offer my compassion and love and, in the end, that’s all I really have to give.

I give you permission to grieve.  But when you are weary and ready to have joy in your heart again, I give you permission to stop grieving.  As a parent who has lost a child I can not tell you how many times I have been told "You never get over the loss of a child."  And I heard this as "you are doomed to have that hole in your heart for the rest of your life."  At 40 years of age, that's a very long time to feel less than whole.   A long time to force oneself to  move forward when sentenced to a life of grief.  But this “life sentence” is just a belief, not an absolute truth. 

So I am giving you permission to refute that belief.  You can and will get over your loss.  You can and will feel joy again.  More joy than you have ever felt before.  I imagine your "lost" loved one cheering you on each step of the way, relieved that you are not only whole again, but filled with more love than one heart can contain.  So much more, that it must overflow onto others.  

Maybe if we can accept the idea that grief is not forever, then we can also approach those who have lost a child with more compassion and sensitivity and less fear and timidity.  Bereaved parents can be embraced with a sense of hope for the future and not a sense of doom that they will always carry a loss that “could be” contagious.  Through that acceptance and compassion we will actually help make the fluid nature of grief possible and the possibility of joy more imminent. 

We don’t really need permission to grieve.  We do just fine reminding ourselves of our loss, all day, every day.  What we need is permission to heal.  Permission to let go of our grief and let joy in.  And so, you have my permission to stop grieving your loss.  I give you permission to live again.

One of the best benefits of being happy now is watching how it affects people around me.  When good energy is flowing through me, happy people notice.  At the supermarket, at work, at the park they smile and engage with me as if to say "Yeah, I feel it too. Ain't life somethin’?"  My three year old son changed immediately, quickly and easily resonating with my new found joy.  The nine year old is a little more set in the fear based patterns I have modeled for him.  But he recognizes and is grateful for a happier more joyful mom.  He is gaining emotional intelligence that wouldn't have happened without my heightened EQ. 

My transformation from anxiety and grief to peace and joy has happened so quickly and so completely that my friends and colleagues are taking notice.  Two friends in particular have recently hit an emotional wall and both said "I want some of what she's having!"  So, I share what I have learned and give them some resources and send them some positive energy for their journey.  And in return I get to feel more joy from having shared it.  That is what is so amazing about sharing my happiness.  It adds to the lives of others and multiplies in my own heart. Am I happy 100% of the time? Of course not. That would not be human or helpful to my growth.  But it is my baseline, the place I am committed to getting back to . . . as often as possible. 

Tonight I watched Dear Evan Hansen.  I don't know why it took me so long.  I knew all the songs, taught "You Will Be Found" to my students, but never had context.  Now I have context. And so much more.  I was reminded that no one should be ignored even when they are unkind, especially when they are unkind. That is when they need us most.  And isn't it amazing that a song can tell a story so much better than words alone.   A song allows the meaning, the feeling, the soul of the words to take flight and land gently on an open heart. 

But mostly I found a beautiful reminder that even when things seem so hard, so painful, so insurmountable . . . they aren't.  They may seem so big, but in time, they can be small.  The death of a child will never be a small thing.  The love we shared will never be small. But the pain will diminish if we allow it to . . . if we become intentional about filling that hollow place with love and gratitude and a map of tiny perfect things.  Which reminds me of another movie I watched a few nights ago.  Another one with a message of hope for a life beyond grief.  Another way to fill that place and make it whole again.

I had been tired and dizzy and depressed for so long that the new joy I am experiencing surprises me every day.  From the small shivers of joy to the clarity of thought, to the boundless energy I am having, even at the end of the day.  I am amazed by my mind's ability to energize itself, if I just allowed it the time to do so.  And to discover that I had this power all along!  This amazing ability to rewire my brain out of grief and negativity and into joy and optimism is in itself a wonder that has me amazed and hopeful.  So much is possible in my next 40+ years, and for the first time in my life, and definitely in the years since my son died, I am saying "Bring it on!" 

So much has changed since I've started training myself to be happy.  I've stopped reading mediocre fiction about terrible things that happen to people.  I don't need these stories setting up shop in my brain.  I am more careful about what I put in there.  Stories of resilience, hope, strength, love . . . those are stories that I welcome in to cultivate resilience, hope, strength and love in me.  It's the same with music.  I am skeptical of anything that promotes hopelessness or powerlessness.  I pay more attention to what I actively put into my mind.  I have more respect for what my mind and body are capable of and so I pay more attention to what goes into both.  I have started to enjoy exercise and healthy food, not out of fear of getting sick, but to pay homage to the body that holds my new found joy.  To be strong and hopeful and to know that I did that, on my own.

The day after my son died I was given the gift of sight . . . an enlightened awareness of beauty.  The world became an extraordinary place.  A place with vibrant colors, human kindness and an abundance of love. It was like a portal into my higher self was opened and I could sense a stillness and an energy I hadn't realized existed.  I wanted to travel and see the world.  I wore vibrant colors like pink and orange and purple.  I saw coincidences that hinted of our inner connectedness.  And I chose a new career path, teaching small children so I could share that untainted sense of love with them.

But after awhile, grief settled in and I lost the beauty.  I became disillusioned about the universe, began to curse it and my fate in it.  I was talking with another mother, who also lost her child to leukemia, and she too experienced that enlightened state after her passing.  She too settled into grief in time, explaining that she knew the grief was beginning to take hold when the sunsets weren't quite as beautiful anymore.  We were given a gift.  A glimpse.  And I believe my journey now, back into a space of beauty and clarity is much smoother and more powerful because of the gift I received when my son died.  Death's gift of sight. . .  and insight. 

The desire to write tugs at my heart.  The desire for stillness which breeds inspiration is a constant.  The desire to move the body and feel alive is ever present, even when I know I should rest.  The desire to connect with others is my life blood.  The desire to leave this earth different than when I arrived is my vision.  

I do this.  All of this.  I know I do.  A little bit every day.  But I desire more.  I desire freedom to explore.  My mind.  My potential.  Nature.  Music.  I want to walk.  An hour every day.  I want to play the flute.  I want to write a song.  I want to sing, with a group, and on my own.  To perform and record beautiful melodies and harmonies that soothe the soul.   I want to sit in a coffee shop and talk with a friend about life, love and purpose.  I want to learn Tai Chi, to teach Tai Chi.  I want to help people connect the mind and emotions with strong, graceful movements.  To help them feel power and presence in body and in spirit.  I want to live and work in a peaceful, exquisitely decorated space with visual reminders of my vision and purpose all around me.  I want to help people rediscover joy by encouraging them to see love all around them. To make gratitude their default. And to hold compassion for themselves and others.  To stand and face this extraordinary world in peace and with purpose.  

The desire to write, to be still, to sing and play and walk and move and share.  This is what I want to do with my life.  Every Day.  I am ready for the next chapter. 

There is a fine line between fear and vigilance.  My son has been sick with a sinus infection and a sustained sound in his ear for the past six weeks. 

With fear, I hear the persistent cough, feel the fever on his forehead and learn of the ringing in his ears and then begin to catalogue all of the terrible things it could be, always ending with a tumor, cancer - something terminal that will take him away from me - something that will break up our family, again.  And then that worst case scenario invades my thoughts, my sleep, and my nervous system, upsetting my routine until I have an answer.

With vigilance, I am watching, listening, asking questions, checking in with my children from a place of calm, loving concern, without inciting fear in them.  From a distance.  Taking action without fear or guilt.  In the past I was attached to fear because of my desire for certainty. I wanted assurance that my children won't suffer, get sick, die . . . I know this is worse for me because I missed Cam's condition until it was severe.  Because he got a cold that turned to pneumonia that led to a diagnosis of leukemia.  So I am judging the future by the past. 

But I know this all exists in me.  In the past, I would have wanted to honor my feelings, my fear, call it a gut instinct.  But my gut does not serve me. It's where the fear and anxiety hang out.  So, when illness arises, I will have my toolbox handy to feel the fear, not judge it, take accountability for it, acknowledge that it does not serve me or the ones I love.  And then replace it with love, compassion and gratitude.  And as a parent, step over that fine line and remain ever vigilant, without fear.  I will get there.  And it will be a place of certainty that all is well in my soul.