Striking "Grief" from the Dictionary

I've found myself in a bit of a tug o' war.

Grief–that word and I aren’t getting along.

In fact, I’d like to remove it from the English language. Not because I’m tired of grieving, or because I don’t want my last name starting with the same letter, but, rather because to grieve is to live. 

The mere existence of the word implies a timeline, stages, and a process, but the truth is grief never leaves us. In fact, I’d argue the screams of a newborn are evidence that each of us are born into this world grieving. That it’s inexplicably intertwined with living. We wear it the same way as freckles and scars. It’s not something you acquire. Some of us are just more acutely aware of this fact. 

The past few days I’ve found myself in a game of tug o’ war. The heaviness in my stomach telling me that with each step forward, I’m moving away from the version of me that my parents knew–further away from them and the world we shared. It’s compounded by the fact that so much of who I am and what I desire to do in this world was shaped by the wounds they unintentionally caused. The bottom line–it’s messy. 

But as I sift through these thoughts in voice memos and the pages of my journal, I’m starting to recognize that there doesn’t have to be such a deep line in the sand. Yes, there was a time when my parents were physically here and now they’re not, but the constant during both periods is life. I was growing and changing when I could reach out and touch my mom and take a bite of my dad’s pasta salad, and I am growing and changing now. 

I think that’s why I have such an issue with the word grief. It adds unnecessary depth to the line that separates the before and after. I’m finding the way forward is to invite my parents and the person I was when they were alive along for the ride as I continue to grow. To live is to die. To live is to grieve.

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