Riptide

This will likely be my shortest post-to-date.

The reason is simple: I got caught in another riptide.

As I’ve said so many times before, grief is unpredictable; it undulates and sways. It’s organic, amorphous, and utterly unscripted. (See The Invisible Colors of Grief) That’s a key concept for all hurting hearts, but frankly, it’s old news. I’ve been writing about it for months.

Here’s the twist – it never changes.

Though time may heal your heart, which it will, it will not make your grief more predictable. I’ve written a bestselling book about love and loss and have been blogging weekly about grief topics for more than 6 months, and my grief still tricks me. It still catches me off-guard; the emotional waves still come out of nowhere and plunge me helplessly into the depths.

It happened this week.

My wife died almost 3 years ago, and with the exception of the few months immediately following her death, I’ve been stable. Not “okay,” not “fine,” not “healed,” but stable.

And then, with no warning whatsoever, I was drowning.

I was sitting at my desk when it hit. And in a synaptic flash, an unseen force triggered the maelstrom and swept me away.

I’ve been struggling mightily ever since. In fact, in a spirit of complete transparency, even writing this post is a challenge. Abrupt and all-consuming, grief is both subtle and roaring; it lulls you with a whisper, then pierces you with a scream. One moment you’re wading blissfully in the waves, the next you’re being drug out to sea.

Whether you’ve been grieving for 3 months or 30 years, the riptide comes for us all. So this week I have nothing for you but camaraderie. Nothing but the heartfelt assurance that you aren’t alone.

If you’re flailing in the waves this week, lost in the current, swept beneath the tide and torn asunder, simply know that I am with you. And like you, my only hope is hope itself.

Hope is our unwavering lighthouse. Always look toward the light.

Your comrade in agony,

Bryan