Parenting and grief are both
common human life experiences, and many of us experience them
simultaneously. And yet, there are
universal aspects of these experiences that no one ever tells you about ahead
of time or talks much about as you go through them.
As you walk each of these
paths, you experience the same range and diversity of emotion that you did
before becoming a parent or a griever. Of course, so much changes emotionally
and practically. Life is never “the same.” But I personally never thought much
about how after losing a very close loved one and/or becoming a parent, there
would be a lot that did stay the same. I continued to experience laughter and
joy even during the rawest periods of grief. I continued to experience moments
of deep depression and hopelessness even during the most joyful times of
parenting. In both cases, I continued to worry and/or berate myself about
things that I would have thought would have been too trivial or pointless for
me to concern myself with as a new parent focused on my child or in the
midst of fresh grief: things like how many carbs I was consuming, what other
people thought of me, where my career was headed, where and when I was going to
enjoy my next cup of coffee.
Anxiety is big in both experiences, especially if you’re
already predisposed to being anxious.
Guilt is big in both experiences, especially if you think
your emotions aren’t “properly” lining up with the experiences at any given
time. Like I said, joy & lightheartedness during grief and depression &
resentment as you parent the beautiful child(ren) you always dreamed of having.
Anger. Irritability. Guilt over being angry and irritable.
The need for solitude or even isolation. The need for
connection. Not knowing what you need.
Feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders and
wishing no one expected anything of you. Other times, feeling intense gratitude
for your life roles and responsibilities and clinging to them, even defining
yourself according to them in extreme ways. Sometimes switching between these
two mentalities several times a day.
It’s all normal. It’s all hard. It’s everything my Dad
experienced as a young father grieving both of his parents who died within a
year and a half of one another.
It’s everything I experienced as the new mom of an infant
when my Dad died. Though not identical experiences, our young adult grief
became one more thing we had in common, added to a list of traits and
experiences that was already substantial.
We heard similar well-intentioned and unhelpful (hurtful,
invalidating) “advice”:
“Life is for the living.”
“Think of all you still have to be grateful for.”
“You have your kid(s) to focus on. You have so much of life
ahead of you.”
“Your parent(s) is in heaven, no longer suffering.”*
*Yes, my father’s parents dealt with suffering, as all
humans do. Yes, my father dealt with suffering and had health issues and
chronic pain. But none of the three of them died as the result of a terminal
illness. All three died of sudden heart attacks. Every life involves suffering,
and their suffering ended because their lives ended. But these were not
merciful endings to long and painful illnesses. Even if they had been, telling
a grieving individual that their loved one is no longer suffering can make that
individual feel as though their own suffering in grief is of less concern or
does not warrant being discussed much further. Telling a grieving individual
that their loved one is in heaven does not strive to understand and validate
the living hell of the griever. Not to mention, even the most religious or
faith-filled bereaved person may be having their doubts about the afterlife
and/or experiencing anger towards God – also completely natural and not
something to try to talk them out of. (Especially not at the wake.)
Growing up, I learned a lot about grief and depression from
my Dad. Because of this, one particular piece of advice that I was able to
immediately count as ridiculous nonsense was the one along the lines of, “Your
dad wouldn’t want you to be sad.” I knew, and still know, beyond a shadow of a
doubt, that my father would honor and empathize with any and all emotions I
felt. He would not want me to deny my feelings, avoid them or hide them at a
cost to myself. He would understand. He would be in pain with me. I grew up
understanding that pain is real, and what is real must be honored.
I was aware of some of what I was learning and internalizing
about grief and pain from my Dad; some of it I wasn’t. One particular lesson I
didn’t fully understand until recently was about faith, and I don’t think my
Dad necessarily knew he was teaching it to me, or that I would find so meaningful
in my adulthood: I saw him allow himself his doubts. I saw him embrace faith
when it was authentic and challenge it when he needed to. I saw him get angry
at God and angry at the church, not always at the same time. I saw him
consistently encourage and uplift others who were feeling connected to God at
any given time, and approach those who weren’t with understanding and a lack of
judgment, encouraging them to reject any shame or guilt imposed on them.
Essentially, I watched my Dad live with humility. What I
learned from this was that faith and spirituality are fluid, dynamic, and meant
to be engaged with authentically and with a spirit of vulnerability. My father demonstrated vulnerability to me on
a daily basis as he raised me and as we fostered a more equal type of
friendship in adulthood.
When I say vulnerability, I do not mean weakness. I mean
strength. I mean courage. I mean empathy. You cannot be truly empathetic to
others without engaging your own vulnerability. Learning how to be vulnerable
is what has allowed for and strengthened every one of my relationships,
including the one with myself.
This doesn’t mean that it hasn’t been painful to be
vulnerable. It is painful. There are many times that parts of my internal
system fight against this pain and will do almost anything before willingly
embracing it or trying to learn more about what it’s trying to teach me. I pull
away from loved ones. I get angry at
loved ones (and everyone else). I get angry at myself. I pull away from myself.
I think I hate myself. I think I am weak. I feel hopeless and helpless about
the future. I start to want to give up.
I know that my Dad also experienced this inner turmoil. I
know because I saw it with my own eyes, sometimes with eyes that were too young
to make accurate sense of what I was seeing.
Of course this hurt me. Of course
it did.
In addition to growing up understanding empathy and the
value of passionate authenticity, I grew up scared. I grew up confused and sad.
I grew up feeling fiercely protective of my father, while also being angry at
him for making me feel that way.
I cannot and will not say that my childhood and adolescent
anxiety disorder was a result of growing up witnessing the pain my father
experienced. It is just not that simple. What I can say is that I was terrified
of losing my parents, my Dad in particular. I had nightmares about their
deaths. I was convinced my Dad would die of a heart attack in his 50s, if not
sooner. I felt abandoned and alone even as my parents loved me with all their
hearts and provided me with all the safety and security a child deserves. I
loved them back with all my heart and was afraid of this love. I was afraid of
how much I needed them.
Now, as the mother of a daughter and soon-to-be mother of a
son, I am the one who is needed. I am afraid of how much I love my kids, but
it’s not the same type of fear. The fear has evolved. At its core, it’s still
about being afraid to lose or become disconnected from what is so precious to
me. But my understanding of parental love has deepened with each passing day of
being a parent, and I have found that the way I love my daughter and soon-to-be
son drains fear of much of its power. The fear is still there, but it doesn’t
get nearly as much of a say. I am too busy loving. (And losing my sanity.)
What is hardest for me as a parent is not knowing how my own
emotions and behaviors are impacting and will impact my kids. Depression and
grief during the pandemic have been especially challenging because Nina is
always with me and sees my entire day, day after day. The amount of pressure I
feel to not be depressed around her now, and to combat potential postpartum
depression in a few months, is almost unbearable.
I shared this pressure with two best friends recently, on a
day when I could barely pull myself out of bed all day and wasn’t buying my own
excuse that it was the pregnancy keeping me there. I felt like I was trying to
hide from Nina that day so she wouldn’t see my pain, but I wasn’t being
entirely successful, and I also felt deeply guilty for passing off childcare to
my husband and mother that day without explaining what was really going on with
me. I told my friends:
If I ignore her because my brain can’t formulate
anything, I feel like that will fuck her up. If I try to force myself to engage
with her and I end up getting moody or snappy with her, I feel like that will fuck
her up.
M: Do you think your Dad fucked you up? I mean, honestly,
maybe sometimes - or you had to get through some shit, but are you permanently
fucked up because of your Dad’s depression? Or are you a more compassionate,
understanding person who gets it. And empathizes with people and doing your
absolute best the way he did?
Me: I think it made life harder for me and there are
residual effects but when I think of him, I think of love.
This is the best and most precious gift I’ve received in my
grief: that love reigns over my memories and continued experience of my father.
I think a part of my fear of losing him was being afraid of the anger I might
feel toward him once he left me. I thought I would be angry at him for not
taking better care of himself, for not prioritizing his health, for abandoning
me when I still needed him so much. For missing out on the rest of my life. I
didn’t know if I could bear feeling that anger toward him in his absence and
was terrified that the anger and despair would overshadow the love I felt. I
didn’t know how I’d be able to process that and if I would lose access to
unconditional love as I tried to navigate those unknown waters.
I understand my younger self for being afraid. I do not
blame her. I only wish that I could tell her that grief won’t rob her of love;
if anything, it will set love on fire.
I understand if my Dad was afraid that I would be angry and
broken once he left us and that I would fixate on the difficult parts of our
relationship. I don’t blame him, and I have the same worries for my own kids. I
only hope he knows now that my grief has not gone that way. (And that if it
had, I know he would love me all the same, perhaps even more.) I only hope he
sees the mom I am and knows that he is treasured by the generations following
him. That we have learned from his example and have been inspired by his life.
That I have been inspired to raise my children with the same courageous
vulnerability with which he raised us.
My father’s full experience and demonstration of his
humanity taught me to live unapologetically as fully human myself. My father
rebelled against letting himself be put in a box. He was a down-to-earth
Harvard-educated musician who played and enjoyed all kinds of music. He was a
deep thinker and ruminative reflector who loved to laugh and be goofy. He was
sentimental and enjoyed reliving the past with rose-colored glasses while also
being grateful for his present and excited for his kids’ futures. He was passionately
romantic and intensely serious but also read comic books and laughed at romantic
comedies. He was an introvert who valued and needed his alone time while also
being a gregarious, outgoing ham who loved to perform with his band and dance
at weddings and parties. He could get very angry and intimidating but was ready
to apologize and talk calmly shortly thereafter, almost always showing wisdom
and insight into the other person’s point of view.
We
are all subject to society’s messaging, labels and norms, including gender
norms. But what I learned from observing the way my father lived his life and
the way he raised my younger brother was that boys and men can
and should be vulnerable and emotional. They can be affectionate and nurturing,
kind and sensitive, creative and insecure, compassionate and humble. Boys and
men can be willing to own up to mistakes, grow, apologize, learn, do better.
This message indirectly taught me
about what girls and women are allowed to be, too: everything. I was free to be
fully human. I could be angry, and opinionated, and strong, and challenging,
and brave, and proud. I could love and value myself as I loved and valued
others. Of course, I did not always act on this permission. But it was
always there. And my Dad was (is) always there to remind me it was there.
When I say my grief has been and continues to be beautiful,
what I mean is that it is real, the same way love is real. What is real and
true is what is beautiful. There is nothing more real or more connected than
birth and death. When I give birth to my son, he will arrive to us from the
place where my father’s spirit still lives. My son will already know my father;
he will, in fact, have been more recently close to my father than any of us on
Earth. I look forward to seeing my Dad’s spark in my son’s eyes. I will work on
believing that no matter what emotions I experience, no matter the pain that
presents itself in my life, I will be the kind of parent my Dad was, one who
feels things and inspires their children to do the same.
