The slow work of grieving
Lulu, a long-coat chihuahua, prancing happily in a park.
Content note: This blog post is about the grief that comes from the death of a pet.
Last month, I wrote about living an ordinary life, with no big news to share. The day after I published that post, everything changed. This month, I wish I didn't have any news to share.
On September 24th, hubby and I said goodbye to our beloved chihuahua Lulu. Her death was sudden and unexpected, so it felt incredibly surreal at first. I spent a lot of time staring off into space, not knowing what to do next.
As someone who relies heavily on my task list, it helped to have small things to check off every day. On October 2nd, a monthly recurring task popped up: Do an exercise in the “work” chapter of ABR. I considered skipping the task as I don’t have a lot of capacity for efforting right now. But my completionist tendencies run deep so I decided to go ahead.
In the last several years, I’ve gone through “work” chapter three times. Each time, I’ve focused on a different type of work: paid work, creative work, and inner work. I hadn’t put much thought into what work I might want to explore this month, and I definitely didn’t anticipate it would be the slow work of grieving.
I leaned into the recurring “curiosity” exercise, which is usually easy and enjoyable for me. This exercise asked me to get curious about my work, so I got curious about my grief.
My curiosity started with an academic approach. What is grief, exactly? Where does it come from? How does it manifest? How long does it last? What are the main strategies when it comes to coping with grief?
I quickly learned that there’s no one-size-fits-all approach to grieving, so I got more personal. What is my experience of grief? Why might I be feeling this way? How does grief ebb and flow for me? What emotions am I experiencing? How can I honour my grief without suppressing it or moving through it too quickly?
As I observed myself, the main thing I noticed is that the grieving process holds a lot of contradictions for me. It takes everything I thought I knew about myself and flips it upside down, inside out, and sideways. The result is a hodgepodge of behaviours I can't really explain.
I’m usually someone who deeply values my grounding routine. But right now, my routine is completely shaken. So much of my daily schedule involved waking up early and being home at certain times to feed or care for Lulu. Without her as my anchor, my days feel unstructured and undefined. My routine doesn’t seem to matter as much.
I’m usually someone who enjoys getting stuff done. But right now, I don’t have the capacity to do much of anything. This means I’ll do the things I want to do (like organizing multiple terabytes of photos) or the things that are easy for me to do (like emptying the dishwasher). I’ve been giving myself grace with the things that don’t need to be done right away (like putting away all the messy piles that have somehow accumulated in my condo).
I’m usually someone who likes to make plans in advance. But right now, I don’t have the energy to socialize for extended periods of time. It’s hard enough to anticipate how I’ll feel in any given moment and the hard work of grieving has left me with very little emotional energy. I’ve been setting a lot of boundaries in this area so I don’t get even more depleted.
I’m usually someone who loves to be at home. But right now, home feels horribly empty — even when hubby and I are both here. This means we’ve been going out more often: to the gym, to the store, to the movies. These short, frequent trips help relieve some of the quiet sadness I feel when I’m at home.
Above all, I’m noticing that the grieving process is physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing. But a big part of me doesn’t want to rush through it. I’m starting to realize that I suppressed some of my grief when our cherished rabbit Truffle hopped over the rainbow bridge in 2020 — and I’m still feeling the effects five years later. I want to honour my grief as an indicator of how much love I had (and still have) for our furbabies.
This all sounds rather gloomy but I’ve noticed a few bright spots in the past week:
I’ve been finding joy in reminiscing. Hubby and I have over 14 years of happy memories with Lulu. I gave myself the comforting project of printing hundreds of photos of her (and Truffle), which we’ve lovingly put into picture frames and a photo album. My memories are starting to bring me more joy than sadness.
I’ve been feeling tiny sparkles around some of the things I used to enjoy, like reading and colouring. My smiles feel more genuine, and less like I’m wearing a mask to make the people around me more comfortable. My happy and excited outlook on life seems to be slowly returning.
I’ve been making plans again. Hubby and I chat often about how we’re feeling and what the future might hold for us. I’m starting to make light plans with friends. I’m also patting myself on the back for booking my first in-person session with my therapist, whom I’ve been working with virtually for over a year. It would be so easy to stay at home, comfortably in my own shell, but I know that interacting with the people in my life will help.
So, what have I learned about my grief?
I know my grief comes in waves,
usually when I’m least prepared for it.
I know the grieving process isn’t linear,
so I expect each day to be unpredictable.
I know I’m not trying to rush past my emotions;
and sometimes it feels like the sadness will never end.
But I also know this:
My grief isn’t trying to cause me pain or suffering,
although sometimes it might feel that way.
My grief wants to be honoured and understood,
and like so many parts of me, given the freedom to express herself.
Yes, my grief is heart wrenching;
it’s also inextricably connected to my capacity for love.
And even though I know my grief will always be a part of me,
I am grateful to be feeling the healing effects of time.
This month’s reflective questions
If you're going through something right now that is leaving you feeling taxed, how can you give yourself grace? Using curiosity as a tool, what questions would you have about what you’re experiencing? How can you make room for any contradictions you might be finding within yourself?
In the slow work,
