The Growing Distance - The Enduring Love

In some ways the more time passes after the death of a loved one, the harder things become. The rituals begin to fade. People’s expectations shift. And even if we believe our loved ones are “well” in spirit, the newness of that understanding begins to fade. As time moves on, friends and family often feel they shouldn’t bring it up. But it is always up for those left behind.

I remembered one family gathering over a holiday break sometime after my son Graham’s death. Though the evening was pleasant enough, I came home and burst into tears. Then I realized why. No one had spoken Graham’s name. I was heartbroken. And I hadn’t made it happen. I was devastated and angry at myself. I vowed never to let it happen again. In a strange way, the farther I moved from the day of his death, the more I knew I could never turn back and prevent it. That growing distance made it all the more real.

These moments creep up out of nowhere and the floodgates of grief overwhelm us, knocking us to our knees, making us question whether we’ve gained any ground at all in learning to live with it, or to live with life itself. Other times, we find ourselves surprised by happiness, wondering how we got there, only to feel guilty for it.

As time progresses, we struggle to balance the shifts within ourselves, our needs for self-care, and our grief. We sense others expecting us to return to “our old selves” while we struggle to create a new one. We shed layers, molt, and shift, much like a caterpillar within a cocoon, profound change unfolding in darkness before emerging from its protective shell. Some of us build our own cocoons, needing solitude to heal. Others prefer to be surrounded by people. This journey is deeply personal, unfolding in its own way for each of us.

How do we tend our hearts with balance—pushing ourselves when intuition calls us forward and withdrawing when rest feels most true?One day at a time.