How Grief Made Me Grow

I used to see myself as weak, like a delicate flower that had been kept sheltered inside. I saw myself how I thought the world saw me: an effortlessly smart, pretty girl with nice clothes, a comfortable house, and parents that loved me and each other– someone who had never experienced real pain, fear, or loss. I belittled my experiences and pushed down the hurt I felt as soon as I felt it, and I scolded myself for being upset by the things I was going through because there were other people who had it so much worse. Then, one day after my grandfather’s death, I woke up and realized that I hadn’t gotten out of my bed to go any farther than the bathroom in over a week; I was too numb to cry anymore and didn’t even have the energy to feed myself. If I was that delicate flower, I’d been replanted outside and the first cold front had barreled in. I was withering miserably under the conditions. I decided that whether my pain was valid or not (a debate for later, I ruled), I desperately needed help.

I wrestled myself and eventually won, and my trophy was a call to the University Health Center’s Counseling and Psychiatric Services. I started therapy and quickly learned how cruel I was to myself, and it made me both relieved and frustrated. Why couldn’t I extend the empathy I have for others to myself? Even when I decided I was going to allow myself to cry and grieve (not only over my late grandfather, but over other genuinely traumatic things I had pushed down over the years as well), it was grueling to battle the berating voices that intruded on my mind. They told me I was dramatic, pathetic, and undeserving of the help of others because I should’ve been able to handle those things on my own. Yet, I persisted for my own sake, clawing my way upwards towards my hope in one day silencing those voices for good.

It’s been over a year since my grandfather’s death. Since then, I’ve dealt with situations and emotions I could never have anticipated would be so difficult, including finally beginning to process my sexual assault that happened in high school, being diagnosed with ADHD, suffering from chronic migraines and then finally getting relief from them, dealing with more depressive episodes and anxiety attacks, surviving a car crash, and caregiving for family members that were badly injured. I still fight against the urge to invalidate my own pain, but reigning victorious over those thoughts is only getting easier. It’s been a long journey, and I know I’m not done. To be honest, I’m not sure if those mean thoughts will ever completely go away, but I think that’s okay. I’ll keep practicing loving myself more. I’m getting better at it every day.

The cold weather has mostly passed now, and spring is here. These days when I’m hurting, I hold my head high with the pride that freely feeling the pain is much more courageous than tucking it away. I am proud of how far I’ve come, and I’m proud of how far I’ll go. I’m not the delicate, fragile flower that I once thought I was; I’m a weathered tree with roots deep and long, more powerful and wiser with each season. When the next winter comes, I’ll remember who I am, and, understanding that the wind is brutal and the cold is unforgiving, I’ll be kind to the branches that break. I’ll patiently regrow, and look forward to the next spring to come.