You Can’t Expert Your Way Out of Pain

Last week, my 23-year-old daughter had a close friend die in a car accident. He was a special soul and one of those friends of your kids that becomes almost family, and there has been some heavy grief in our home with his passing. Witnessing the anguish of my daughter and her friends has been so painful, in addition to my own feelings of sadness from the loss of this beautiful (too) young man. Several people commented, "Well, it's a good thing you're a grief specialist!"

Hmm. Yes and no.

Here's the thing: you can't expert your way out of the pain of grief. There's no way to logic your way out of it. No magic words that make everything ok. It's emotional work to get through it. It's hard, and it's supposed to be that way. I have years of training on the subject of grief; I work with clients daily, I read about grief, I research grief, I write about grief, teach about grief, and speak about grief -- and none of those things give me a shortcut out of it. The pain of grief is a universal human experience, and we must go through it to move forward.

Knowing about grief helps me (and helps me help others) navigate through grief. It's still hard. It still hurts. But, one of the most significant gifts that being a grief specialist gives me is compassion for myself.

I taught a class just last Tuesday on the physical and emotional symptoms of grief. And guess what? I'm noticing quite a few of those things show up in myself. I'm exhausted. I feel a physical ache in my chest. I'm quick to tears. I'm feeling a lot more anxiety than usual. My tolerance for things that don't matter is low. I feel overwhelmed with input -- usually, I like to listen to podcasts or audiobooks, but instead, I'm choosing silence or instrumental music. etc. Knowing those things are part of grief helps me have more compassion for myself because I understand why I am not feeling like I usually do.

Have you ever felt a weird physical symptom, like maybe you were cold all day, and there was no good reason for it? Like it's a warm day, you're moving around, and you've put on a sweater, but you're still cold. You might think, "what on earth is wrong with me today? I'm such a wimp!" But then you go home and start to feel achy, so you take your temperature, and it turns out you've had a fever all day. Ah, so that's why you were cold all day. It makes sense. You're not a wimp. You have a fever, and feeling cold is a normal response to a fever. It's similar with grief. I know the physical and emotional symptoms of grief, so when I identify them in myself, I don't have to wonder what's wrong with me. I already know. 

I know the wild mix of emotions I'm feeling is typical, even if it feels a little out of control to my usual even-keel self. Understanding that grief is physical and emotional means I need to be supportive of my body, mind, and spirit. I'm supporting myself by prioritizing sleep, sitting with that ache in my chest and letting it flare without trying to stamp it down, crying when the tears come, and trying hard not to "should" myself. I also know that this isn't a place I want to stay, and I need to do the emotional work to process this so I can move forward. Knowing these things also allows me to share them with my family.

Many years ago, we had some family visit us here in the Phoenix area, and one of the activities we did was hike Camelback mountain. (And by we, I mean they. I was home with our youngest, who was too little for the climb.) I remember the group returning home and laughing because one of my nieces had climbed the mountain wearing crocs, and they got all sorts of comments about her unsuitable footwear on the way up. None of us had climbed Camelback before and didn't know that crocs probably weren't the greatest choice. But she made it up the mountain wearing those foamy shoes with no traction.

The hike would have no doubt been easier had she been wearing hiking boots. Her feet would have been more supported. The trail might have been less slippery. But it still would have been a hike. It would have been hard. It would have stretched her capacity either way. And now we all know that wearing crocs makes that hike harder, so we'd help someone else pick different shoes before they attempt the hike. It's the same with having knowledge about grief. It makes the trail less slippery and treacherous. It helps us support ourselves and others better. But that trail of grief is still arduous. We're just not making it harder on ourselves because we are equipped with the knowledge and tools to get us through. 

I am grateful for the knowledge I have about grief -- and thankful that I have this platform to share what I know with you because it is easier the more you know. But knowledge doesn't help us skip the pain. It's a tool to propel you through and to help you develop resilience and self-compassion, but we all still have to go through it to move forward.