“‘What do we do when our hearts hurt?’ asked the boy. ‘We wrap them in friendship, shared tears and time, till they wake hopeful and happy again,’ said the mole.” ~“The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and The Horse” by Charlie Mackesy
There comes a point in life when the loss can seem just too unbearable.
A teenager who loses their group of best friends to the social wars of high school, a dear friend to suicide, and perhaps a bit of themselves while navigating the world at large…and then a fucking pandemic on top of it all.
A pained soul who has lost more than most people have in their three decades and finds their bright, shining light dimmed now…if only for self-preservation and heart-protection.
A middle-aged mom gaining her freedom, but losing half her family, her children’s emotional security, and too many dear, sweet people she cherished in her life along the way…all while coming home to herself.
A sweet friend whose heart was broken by someone she thought would be her forever-person, or another who thought that the perfect, furry child had adopted her…but wasn’t to be after all.
As much as we love on each other and hold each other up while the waves of loss and grief overcome us, there’s only so much we can do from the sidelines as loved ones. As the quote above from Mackesy’s book reminds us, all we can do is wrap them in friendship and shared tears until they wake hopeful and happy again.
And love on them over and over and over in the meantime.
And good lord, how I have personally prayed fervent, pleading prayers for my most favorite souls to awaken in a hopeful, happy place. Because that is my greatest wish for them.
But speaking from personal experience, when you’re in the middle of your own Dark Night of the Soul, it’s difficult — if not impossible — to even remember there is light anymore, let alone actually believe in it or see it.
So I understand on a soul-deep level that when I hope and pray that my loved one will simply wake up the next morning, I know that’s all I can do. Because it’s not my journey — it’s theirs. And oh, how painfully I have learned that it is not my place — nor my right — to take their pain away.
Megan Devine and her book on grief, “It’s OK That You’re Not OK” as well as her website and Facebook page, Refuge in Grief, have ushered me through the last several years of dealing with all of my loved ones’ pains and losses…in addition to my own. I am so grateful to have been shown her work — and her heart-soothing message, “Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.” In many ways, that has become a mantra for me in the witnessing of, and holding space for, other people’s pain and grief. Not to mention my own.
But there’s also another voice that echoes in my head as I remind myself that it’s not my place to heal anyone else’s pain…even those I hold closest and dearest, and mistakenly believed I was charged with protecting from pain.
Glennon Doyle is that voice.
There are moments in which I remind myself that all I need to do is figure out the exact right next step — and only that next step — in order to make it through some days. My darkest days. And it’s Glennon Doyle’s voice that echoes that reminder.
She also reminds me that I can do hard things — whether those things are making monumental decisions about my loved ones…or whether those hard things are simply doing the laundry that day, and not making another stupid, jerkface decision for myself or any other living soul.
She also reminds me on a daily basis that life is both brutal and beautiful at the same time — brutiful. And that single word that she coined gets me through many challenging moments.
Here are some of the other messages that Glennon has shared through her blog and her books that have carried me through some of my most difficult moments, months, and years:
“The only meaningful thing we can offer one another is love. Not advice, not questions about our choices, not suggestions for the future, just love.”
“Grief and pain are like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. They’re sacred. They are part of each person’s journey. All we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am all alone. That’s the one fear you can alleviate.”
“People who are hurting don’t need Avoiders, Protectors, or Fixers. What we need are patient, loving witnesses. People to sit quietly and hold space for us. People to stand in helpful vigil to our pain.”
“Progress through something traumatic, it’s not linear. It’s not like we go from unhealthy to healthy, failure to success. I think it’s all circular. You just come back around to the same pain, and the same loneliness. But each time you come around, you’re stronger from the climb.”
“If no pain, then no love. If no darkness, no light. If no risk, then no reward. It’s all or nothing. In this damn world, it’s all or nothing.”
“I learned that I need to move toward the pain. Pain doesn’t go away. If you don’t embrace it, it will be passed onto someone else, usually those around you.”
“Loves, listen to me: The wounded become the healers. Your pain will not be wasted. Trust it. Be brave enough to be still in it and you’ll learn that your pain will NOT consume you. It will become the fire you burn to light and warm the world.”
That last one gets me through so, so much. The knowing…deep within my soul…that we are each experiencing something that only we can experience. And that only we can then take back into the world in order to help others.
I know the loves in my world have big messages to share. Messages that were born from their loss and pain and grief…and messages that only they can share. Because only they have lived it.
That’s why I can’t take away their pain.
That’s why I have to stand on the sidelines and love on them from afar as they navigate their own journey.
And that’s why I need my loved ones to do the same for me.
We can witness each other’s pain.
We can hold each other up as best we can.
We can try to support each other and keep each other’s heads from slipping under the rising tide.
But in the end, that’s all we can do.
The rest, my love, is up to you.
“It’s pain. It’s the struggle. It’s not having nothing to overcome. It’s overcoming and overcoming and overcoming. Because it was never our job, nor our right, to protect our [loved ones] from their pain. Our job is to point them directly toward it and say, ‘Baby, that was meant for you. And I see your fear and it’s real and it’s big, but I see your courage…and it’s bigger.’” ~ Glennon Doyle