Grief has no season

April 2022

Since the beginning of time, humans have sought ways to make meaning, to make sense of things that don’t make sense, and to explain the unexplainable. Greek and Roman mythology are perfect examples of this: seeking to explain why the tides go in and out, why the sun rises and sets, or why the seasons change.

We attach much meaning to seasonal changes to navigate our feelings. Autumn has been described as melancholy and spring typically represents hope and rebirth. For those who are in the early days of grief, descriptions of winter may be fitting: raw, dark, cold, and bitter. Being further along on the grief journey might feel more like springtime; a sense of hope, faith renewed, or love returning.

The message, real or perceived, is that we are supposed to feel certain ways at certain times.

NOPE.

Allow me to share my own experience. My sister Lisa died April 12, 2008, when spring was in full bloom. Trees and flowers, bees, and birds, were all about the business of renewal. A crepe myrtle in front of my home was blooming so beautifully and it became my metaphor, my talisman, and my hope as I found my way through autumn and winter. In my mind, if I could make it through the first year of my loss and see that crepe myrtle bloom once again, I would be victorious in my grief journey. I had survived. As spring approached the next year, I waited for that tree to bloom again, only to arrive home one day to find it pruned back to…nothing. Bare, empty of blooms, and robbing me of what I had clung to, what I had trusted to be my reward for doing the challenging work of grief. I wailed, feeling as if my sister had died all over again. I WAS able to appreciate a metaphor I created; that sometimes we must be “pruned back,” take a step back to grow healthy and strong. But STILL, fourteen years later, I grieve for my sister, in every season. It is softer, just like early evening in spring, but the chill and the damp still creep in. And keep in mind I am grief counselor. This is further proof that no one can be an expert in anyone’s grief, even their own.

None of us are obligated to make our grief fit a timeframe, a roadmap, a form, a season, or a box to make someone else feel better. Our only obligation on our grief journey is to be where we are until it’s time to turn a corner into the next feeling, our next season. A small tender blade of grass brings hope if YOU want it to. But a quiet snowfall may speak to your healing more than flowers blooming ever can.

“Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, makes the night morning and the noontide night.”

— Richard III, William Shakespeare

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