Kindness in Grief
Kindness means surrender. It means giving my grief all the space it needs, letting it stretch out, letting it breathe. It means never apologizing for reminding people that this is not “over,” that I am not “better,” that my world is not the same. Kindness means never being sorry for being sad, for being broken, for not being okay. It’s being honest, showing up in all my messiness and pain, and not forcing myself to pretend.
Kindness is choosing the stewards of my grief carefully, consciously choosing who walks this road with me and who doesn’t. It means never feeling obligated to bring someone along just because they want to try and make this better. Kindness is giving myself permission to tell people when they’ve done or said something that’s hurt me. Kindness means telling people how they can do better.
Kindness is letting myself come up for air, letting myself feel the sun on my face, if only for a moment. It’s letting myself feel happy in those brief moments when I feel happy. It’s letting myself be distracted when I need a moment to pretend that this all isn’t real.
Kindness is reminding myself that when my kids see me cry, when I disappear yet again, when I don’t have the energy to play, that I don’t need to put on a different face. I can let the tears fall and say, “Mommy is so sad because she misses Aunt Melissa.” I can let them offer me hugs. I can receive kisses from their stuffed animals. Kindness is reminding myself that I am teaching my children what grief looks like, what it looks like to love those who are gone, what it looks like to be cared for.
Kindness is remembering how loved I am, even when I feel so very alone.
Kindness is believing people when they tell me that she couldn’t have had a better sister.
Kindness is telling myself over and over again: You are a good sister. You did everything you could. She knows how much you loved her. You loved her so well, just as she loved you. You did enough. It is enough. Everything you did was good enough.
Kindness is choosing the stewards of my grief carefully, consciously choosing who walks this road with me and who doesn’t. It means never feeling obligated to bring someone along just because they want to try and make this better. Kindness is giving myself permission to tell people when they’ve done or said something that’s hurt me. Kindness means telling people how they can do better.
Kindness is letting myself come up for air, letting myself feel the sun on my face, if only for a moment. It’s letting myself feel happy in those brief moments when I feel happy. It’s letting myself be distracted when I need a moment to pretend that this all isn’t real.
Kindness is reminding myself that when my kids see me cry, when I disappear yet again, when I don’t have the energy to play, that I don’t need to put on a different face. I can let the tears fall and say, “Mommy is so sad because she misses Aunt Melissa.” I can let them offer me hugs. I can receive kisses from their stuffed animals. Kindness is reminding myself that I am teaching my children what grief looks like, what it looks like to love those who are gone, what it looks like to be cared for.
Kindness is remembering how loved I am, even when I feel so very alone.
Kindness is believing people when they tell me that she couldn’t have had a better sister.
Kindness is telling myself over and over again: You are a good sister. You did everything you could. She knows how much you loved her. You loved her so well, just as she loved you. You did enough. It is enough. Everything you did was good enough.