Grief Digest Articles

It is my son's 36th birthday today, six years after he was brutally murdered by two men who left him on the ground to die. On each Birthday, I have placed a vase of flowers at the sight where he was killed - but not this year…. My grief has eased a bit, and made some space for me to finally feel less angry, tormented and sorrowful, all the emotions I have remained dependent upon for seven years. They say time heals all wounds, but what exactly does it heal? I feel that I am able to perceive the …

Three months have passed since the death. Roughly 12 full weeks, 90 long days, 2,160 humbling hours, 129,600 melting minutes, 7,776,000 solemn seconds. Seems like just yesterday I was holding your hand and speaking softly about how things were. I miss you in ways that surprise me.At Third MonthWhat has it been like for you in the past 3 months, dear reader? Have you found any restful sleep? How about eating? Are you making an effort to eat at least one healthy meal each day? Have people come by, …

On June 9, my mom passed away. Nine days later, my dad followed. My family and I buried them together on June 22, setting butterflies free as the sun set.My parents were my rock. They were always there for me and their mere presence made me feel safe no matter what the situation is. They also did everything they could to support me and my dreams. So when I lost both of them, I felt my entire world shatter into a thousand pieces.After the burial, I lost interest in everything. I didn’t want to se …

I woke up and rolled to the right side of my bed. My skin brushed over the rumples of my fitted bed sheet. I pulled a corner from the edge of the mattress sometime during the night. While digging through the corners of my eyes with my pinky finger, I turned off the alarm set on my iPhone, which was laying on dresser drawer. I pushed myself out of bed, one foot touching the hardwood floor, another stepping on the pair of dirty boxers.The gray shine from the street light outside my window skated o …

I am a widow, and the word feels alien but good. I accept and fiercely hold onto the label, because this particular label marks my condition, and my widowhood is a condition. Body rhythms slow, life flat-lines, and everything feels wrong. I no longer recognize myself. My hair grows long and gray, my spine hunches, and my skin is deeply etched with tears. I am now Crone.In Crone’s world, laughter is replaced with silence, and time is measured in se-conds. Daily routine is completely demolished. T …