(Good) Grief

A few years ago, before I got diagnosed with Hashimoto’s, I would sit on the floor of my tiny basement apartment, and meditate. I decided to forgo internet service at this time, so I really learned the value of silence, and what it meant to be with myself and God. As I’d sit in meditation, an endless stream of tears would bubble to the surface. It was as if I had a well of grief in me, that had been pushed down in my attempts to be strong and present a brave face to the world. The reality was that so many years of my life seemed to have been spent waiting - waiting to be well, attempting to “fix” myself and my health, experiencing deep shame that I was not who I thought I should be or where I thought I should be at that stage in my life. I was in mourning for the life I had wanted, but that had eluded me as I experienced a barrage of new and old symptoms, and increasing feelings of despair. Somehow though, in those moments where my grief became expressed, I felt held in a way that I can’t entirely articulate. The silence and the space, the lack of distraction, my breath, my hand across my heart - they all allowed me to simply BE. Up until that point, I had been at war. I was angry and sad. I was uncertain and lost. I felt abandoned by God. But there, in those moments on the floor, I knew without question that in all of my confusion, I was seen, and entirely loved. I began to let go a bit, to surrender to the understanding that even if my situation never changed, that in the quiet, I could be found entirely whole.