Rock Bottom

We’ve all been there.

And unfortunately, most of us will be again.

Grief is a manic, undulating journey riddled with tortuous switchbacks and sweeping valleys. It’s fluctuating and unpredictable, organic and amorphous by nature.

You know what I’m talking about.

The days when the world unexpectedly dissolves beneath your feet.

When your existence collapses into a singularity.

The trigger you (or someone else) pulled without even knowing it.

You may not talk about it, at least not often, or only to your most trusted friends, but it’s happened. If you have loved and lost, the fallout is both imminent and ineluctable. Grief is no different than the universe itself; it is a closed entropic system – things fall apart.

And yes, it also happens to me. Today, in fact.

I woke up early to write, which is typically my most peaceful time of day. Not really because it’s early, but because I’m writing. Putting words on the page, especially before sunrise, makes the day meaningful before it ever begins. For those few hours, sleep-deprived and coffee-fueled though I may be, I exist in harmony with my purpose. To put it plainly, I’m doing what I love, what I believe I’m meant to do, so naturally those pre-dawn meetings with the blank page establish a sense of fulfillment that even the worst day can’t undo.

Usually.

Today started out no different – I wrote for 3 hours, found peaceful purpose in the productivity, and set off for work with a renewed spirit.

Then, the collapse.

The singularity.

The dissolution of the world beneath me.

I can honestly say, even now, that I have no idea what caused it. There was no perceivable trigger, no unsought memory or conscious moment of heart-wrench. The devastation simply was. It came from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding me, drowning me, abolishing me entirely.

Tears splatter my keyboard; fists clench; heart races; stomach turns; walls close in.

And then, there is nothing. Just scars and shadows and silence.

Understandably, it was horrible. I’m confident that if you’re still reading this, you’re probably also nodding your head, reminiscing on your own moments of singularity.

But here’s a twist you might not see coming (I know I didn’t):

In these moments of collapse, these agonizing sojourns at rock bottom, there is abundant pain, heartbreak, and confusion. Maybe even shock or physical trauma. Asthma and anxiety attacks. But there’s also something else – freedom.

It’s tough to describe, but there’s something unshackling about arriving in the deepest pit, beckoned face-to-face with something we neither want nor deserve. In these rock bottom moments, we have no choice but to let go.

We relinquish control because we have none left anyway. We’ve already broken free of our self-made guardrails, plummeted off the cliff face, and violently come to rest in a savagely empty emotional trough.

When it comes to grief journeys, control is an illusion.

With the illusion abandoned and nothing but the stony depths for company, our gaze is forced inward. We have no choice but to stare into the singularity, to peer introspectively into whatever brokenness lies within.

Here we find an untold story, a yet-incomplete work of art.

Make no mistake, there are no blank canvases. Only stained ones waiting to be repainted.

If your heart is broken today, or if it breaks tomorrow, or if its been broken for a long time, please don’t waste your moments of singularity. Don’t eagerly overlook your encounters with rock bottom.

These moments will come. They aren’t your fault, you don’t want them, and you certainly don’t deserve them, but they’ll come anyway.

And when they do, please use them.

Take hold of the stained canvas and start painting.

You might just surprise yourself with what you come up with.

A fellow journeyer,

Bryan