My grief looked a lot different than it had two decades prior. I was a mother who had lost a daughter, not the other way around. Instead of veering away from the deep, dark feelings, I was mature enough to realize I had to lean into them.
There was no escaping it — it was on my body, in my husband’s eyes. We both tried every form of therapy we could: individual, couple, physical. I also did the confrontational work that I knew was necessary (seeking out other stories of infant loss, sharing my own). In part, I was caring for that lonely, lost teenager inside of me.
The biggest difference, though, was accepting help from friends and family. Loved ones cleared our house of all the “baby things” while we were still at the hospital and dropped endless amounts of food on our porch. This time, I let myself be cared for; I allowed support to seep into every crevice of my life.
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A friend invited us on her family’s trip to the Outer Banks, six weeks after I gave birth. I missed being active and was grasping at anything that would bring me happiness. So we dedicated one day of our trip to renting bikes.
I worried about my pelvic floor, so I only intended to ride a couple of miles. But, before long, I had biked 10 through the salty North Carolina air, over boardwalk planks with views of egrets flying up from the dunes. I had missed this feeling of being at once untethered yet in control, and I wanted to take the flat terrain back home with me.
Several months later, after my husband and I had returned to work and attempted to find semblances of normalcy, we took another trip to visit family in northern Maine. A common trope with grieving, people say, is that you no longer “sweat the small stuff.” But, on this trip, I realized the small stuff could actually save me.
My scientist uncle had MacGyvered an electric bike together for my aunt to ride around their remote lake town. I borrowed it one morning and, with occasional help from the motor, I started seeing those rocky hurdles in my rearview mirror. For hours, I coasted up and down hills, through tall Eastern pine trees. I braked for critters, took in lake views and reminded myself — as I’ve often had to do — that there are still ways to experience joy in the wake of unspeakable pain.
Source link: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/04/18/well/mind/biking-cycling-grief-movement.html