Ever feel like you're running in an emotional marathon, where for every stride forward, you somehow end up three more back? Welcome to my world, where the finish line keeps moving, and the track is made of quicksand.
I became an expert in the art of self-distraction, a maestro of the "I'm totally fine" symphony, with a catalogue so convincing I almost fooled myself. That is until reality decided to play musical chairs with my emotions. "I got a raise! Look at me, moving up in the world... Oh wait, why does that elderly woman's hair in the grocery line make me want to cry? Ah, right, grief… thought you'd taken a day off."
This cycle became my new normal. Dive headfirst into work, set a new goal, and for a fleeting moment, bask in the illusion of progress. "Planned a family vacation? Clearly, I'm a poster child for emotional health... Oh, what's that? Tragedy on line one? Back to square one, folks."
The hits kept coming, a relentless wave of loss that seemed almost personal in its persistence. Cousins, uncles, an aunt, a mentor—each loss a stark reminder that no amount of raises or promotions could shield me from the inevitable. I found myself clocking 80-hour weeks, a convenient mask for my emotional evasion.
"Just goes to show you what hard work and emotional avoidance can do for you!" I'd joke, halfheartedly, as I climbed the ladder from Marketing Coordinator to Marketing Director in record time. The irony wasn't lost on me—success fueled by the very thing I was running from.
But here's the kicker: no matter how fast you run, grief is the shadow that always catches up with you. It wasn't until I faced losses that were too profound to ignore that I realized numbness wasn't the goal; feeling was. Anger, sorrow, even fleeting moments of joy—I wanted them all, but had cornered myself into a life with no room for emotional luxury.
As I navigated this minefield of denial and realization, I began to see the humor in the absurdity of it all. I was years ahead of my goal! (in marketing at least)Who knew that emotional avoidance could be such a career booster?
But here's what they don't tell you: eventually, you build an immunity to the numbing effect of sand-casting.
Slowly but surely, I stopped burying my head, not out of newfound courage, but out of sheer exhaustion from the weight of my own denials. And let me tell you, the world looks different when you're not viewing it from under a layer of sand. Suddenly, you find beauty in the most unexpected places—like in the ability to feel pain deeply, because it means you're still alive, still human.
It's not about learning to let go of grief. It's about learning to live with it, but find the joys in life anyway.