Grief and the Dead Parents Club
A Guide to Navigating Life's Emotional Rollercoaster
Where to begin…Grief. What a motherf*cker. Never have I had a more love/hate relationship with an emotion or fought something so hard within myself — it has shaped who I am more than anything else in my life thus far, granting me keys to rooms I didn’t ask to enter but would certainly not walk away from now. Last week was the 8 year anniversary of my mom’s passing and I couldn’t have imagined my life today back then at 21. It's a seemingly twisted truth that I am an evolving and improved version of myself because of this loss. Yet, paradoxically, she remains the person with whom I most wish I could share my life experiences.
*The dead parents club* is my lighthearted nod at my biggest heartbreak, with a membership that I would never wish on anyone else. Yet, every time I meet another person who’s crossed this threshold, I find the potential for deep connection. It isn’t necessarily spoken, but there’s an understanding that comes from shared pain that immediately cuts past the usual bullshit. That being said, it’s worth noting that I am grateful for all of the people in my life that I love deeply who haven’t yet joined this club and I certainly don’t believe it to be a prerequisite for meaningful connection. One loss is no greater than another and traumas cannot (and should not) be compared. The power of empathy and compassion reign supreme and are my favorite qualities to discover in people (along with a good sense of humor). What follows is simply my experience with the grief of a particular personal loss and some ways I’ve learned to navigate through it.
Grief, it turns out, is not a beast to be conquered or silenced. It is a faithful companion and a testament to the love that was once so physically present in our lives. It's not a linear process with neat stages and there is no tidy resolution. It’s often also extremely complicated.
Jennette McCurdy’s book, “I’m Glad My Mom Died”, is perhaps one of the most poignant and relatable books about grief that I’ve ever read. It mirrored my experience in more ways than one and simultaneously gave me the permission I didn’t know I needed to embrace the complexities of my own relationship with my mom after her death. If this piques your interest, Jennette’s interview on one of my favorite podcasts, Good For You (hosted by the brilliant Whitney Cummings) is worth a listen (or watch). You can scroll to the bottom of this newsletter for direct links to all recommendations as well.
Let Out the Ugly Cry:
We've all been there—the kind of crying where your face gets all red, your nose gets stuffy, and you can't catch a breath. It may not be pretty, but it's beyond therapeutic. I’ve had a habit of stifling myself or hiding in bathrooms for "ugly cry" sessions (what is it about tile floors??) but what I keep learning is that letting it all out, no matter how unattractive you may feel in the moment, is vital for healing. Don’t get me wrong, I still prefer to cry solo, but I cannot stress enough how important it is to take advantage of the moments when your emotions come up and let them out — even if that means excusing yourself from a public setting for the sweet solace of a bathroom stall somewhere. The faster you get it out, the faster you’ll feel better. Give yourself permission to navigate the internal storm without feeling like you need to keep it all together.
The Joy of Laughter in the Midst of Tears:
Grieving doesn't mean we have to be serious all the time. In fact, finding laughter amid tears can be incredibly healing. I’ve personally found so much comfort in stand up comedians who’ve been through similar loss/trauma and make well crafted jokes about it. Taylor Tomlinson is a great example of this; she doles out about six minutes worth of dead mom jokes in her last special, “Look At You” that absolutely make me cackle even on my saddest day, no matter how many times I watch. Please note that I recognize that (a) stand up comedy isn’t for everyone (neither is any of this advice) and (b) how fine a line there is between a joke and a trigger. I absolutely do not recommend you seek out triggering content and am someone who still cannot watch a movie about a cancer patient without being wrecked for weeks. I am simply suggesting stand up comedy as a dark way to make light of your own experience because this is where I have personally found such relief. It’s also possible to have funny memories pop up and actually enjoy them rather than be haunted by them. For example, I remember one time when I accidentally snorted in a yoga class and thought, "My mom would've laughed at me for this!" And just like that, the laughter broke through the sadness. Not only did it make me feel closer to her, but it reminded me that life could still hold moments of joy.
Let the Legacy Live On:
When we lose someone we love, we often fear that their memory will fade away with time. But let me tell you something: love is powerful. It stays with you even after the person is gone. Remember the lessons, the jokes, the kindness, and share them with others. It’s okay to talk about them. Keeping their memory alive will likely make you feel more alive too.
Create a "What Would They Say?” Moment:
Whenever life throws a curveball my way, I ask myself, "What would Mom say in this situation?" Imagining her response helps me make decisions that either align with her wisdom or reveal my own. It's like having a little piece of her with me wherever I go.
Connect with Others Who Understand:
It’s understandable if you find yourself with friends and family who simply cannot relate. It’s also okay if you secretly wish they could relate while simultaneously hoping they never have to. Like I said, it’s a motherf*cker. Don’t get me wrong, your closest friends will not only reveal themselves but will do their absolute best to be there for you in whatever capacity they can be. I do still highly recommend that you seek out groups or new friends who have navigated a similar grief themselves. Companions who can offer empathy without judgment are priceless and the unspoken language of shared loss can be remarkably healing. Check out The Dinner Party if you’re looking for a good place to start with a group and see if/when they may be hosting in your city. Therapy is also vital. I’ll be writing another post about finding a therapist and the benefits I’ve experienced from therapy in general. Stay tuned.
Dance Like Nobody's Watching (Seriously!):
Okay, so I don’t know about your parents, but my mom would blast her favorite music and dance like nobody's watching at least once a week — a friend recently suggested it was time to bring back that spirit! She couldn’t have been more on point. Put on your person’s favorite song, turn up the volume, and dance like there's no tomorrow. Trust me, it will lift your spirits and remind you of the joy they brought into your life. And if the groove is followed by tears, it will be alight — that’s just another way your body has decided to release the pain! Like Shrek always said, better out than in, baby.
Allow Yourself to Feel and Heal:
Grief has no expiration date, and healing is not a linear process. Some days, you'll feel like you're on top of the world, and others, you'll feel like you're drowning in heartbreak. It's okay to have both good and bad days. Allow yourself to feel the pain, but also give yourself the space to heal and grow. I like to imagine that there’s a mud puddle of pain, sadness, and even self-pity (yes, I said it): it’s okay to sit in the mud with the full knowledge that you will eventually get out. A clean towel is waiting for you right outside of the puddle and the mud will wipe right off…it will likely even give you a healthy glow, like a spa treatment! Please note, however, that there’s a difference between a metaphorical mud spa treatment and a metaphorical mud hot-tub. The *spa treatment* is for your benefit; it clears toxins, pores, and leaves you a little extra sparkly when you get out. The *hot-tub* lets the mud simmer and stew and seep into your skin, making it that much harder to get out / over to the other side. Remember that there is a whole beautiful world waiting for you outside the puddle, dear reader. Get your spa glow up on.
Create Sacred Spaces:
In the midst of loss, it’s common to crave connection—to your departed loved one, to yourself, and to the universe. Create sacred spaces to honor your person’s memory. It could be a quiet corner in your home adorned with their favorite flowers or a journal where you pen your thoughts to them. On this note, I thought I’d share a letter I recently wrote to my mother…It’s an example of my own coping mechanisms, complex feelings, and a peek into what a letter to your loved one could possibly look like if you’re not sure where to start.
Dear Mom,
I still talk to you all the time. I tell you about the passive aggressive guy in my meeting, the girl I’m going to dinner with on the 31st, and what I’m wearing to Caroline’s wedding. You know the 7 foot painting I bought from my favorite up-and-coming artist in New York and how I keep trying to figure out what the frame should look like. Or at least, I hope you do. Maybe this is why I love my alone time so much. Because you are here when I’m alone. I’m sitting on the couch that my friends gave me as a housewarming gift, talking to the air, and I feel so lucky…and so heartbroken. All at the same time. Heartbroken. That’s been the highlighted word in therapy lately. And thank god for my therapist.
I remember about four months after you transitioned how an ex boyfriend had turned to me and asked how long I was going to keep crying about you. He didn’t understand and I didn’t fault him for asking, but it was a question that struck such a chord because I didn’t have an answer. Well, it’s been almost eight years and I still cry all the time— I likely always will. Time supposedly heals all wounds but this one may be the exception because it turns out that the farther I get from your “death day” (what I call the anniversary of your transition), the more I miss you and want to tell you about this life I’ve been living. From the mundane to the big events; so much has already happened that even if you spontaneously physically reappeared and we sat down for dinner right now, it would take at least a month to catch you up. This is why I tell you as I go…just in case.
Admittedly, in a strange way, our relationship transformed for the better when you transitioned. I know that this may sound insane or insensitive to some people but all of the things that kept you heartbroken, that separated us, or that got between us when you were in your human form aren’t there anymore. It’s both a terrible and a beautiful thing. Some days, I’m so angry at you for leaving; on others, I fall so deep into the dark blue sea of sadness that I find myself gasping for air; and then there are days when I understand why you didn’t want to be here anymore — those are the ones that perhaps scare me the most. I pray that I am exactly like you and nothing like you at the same time.
Of course I’d give anything to have had more time together on this planet but I also know I wouldn’t be who I am now if things had turned out differently. You were my best friend on your best day and biggest critic on your worst. I only wish we could’ve experienced more of the in-between moments. So I continue to talk to you. Because if science says that energy cannot be created or destroyed, then where does it go? I choose to believe that you’re here in some form — whether it’s true or not. Labeling myself as “woo-woo”, “religious”, “atheist”, or even “spiritual” is irrelevant when it comes to grief and you. I don’t care what any so-called experts say, I just miss my mom. I’m still learning how to be a person on a planet that can feel so lonely and ugly and magical and good. I will talk to your soul/ghost/energy/whatever we want to call it until my very last breath, whether it’s about who I’m falling in love with or what Chinese food to pick up. Don’t worry, I’ll order you some extra Lo mein.
Love,
Emily
The sadness of this grief is that it is once in a lifetime. The blessing of this grief is that it is once in a lifetime. You are not alone.
Direct Links:
Read: I'm Glad My Mom Died
Community: The Dinner Party
Listen: Jennette McCurdy on Good For You
Watch: “Look At You” on Netflix
-E