Stop Telling Me I’m Not Grieving Properly
I’m working through my heartbreak. One brick at a time.
Driving east on Interstate 80, I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach and focus on my driving. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, as the fierce, Wyoming wind lashed against my car. From the backseat, I heard my son’s voice rise above the radio and the tires humming on the pavement. “We’re not going back are we, Mom?” he asked. I glanced up at the rearview mirror and made eye contact with the face sitting behind me. “I don’t know.” I said with a sigh. But I did know. I was driving to escape my past and there was no turning back.
A few months earlier, I sat in the dark hallway of our home with the phone pressed to my ear; my trembling legs and broken heart left me too weak to stand. My mother’s words had literally pulled the floor out from under me. Her voice broke as she said, “Your daddy died last night.” I told myself it was just the dream again. That same awful nightmare I’d struggled with for years. Mom would call in the middle of the night to tell me Dad had died. And I’d wake, my face wet with tears — relieved it was just a dream. But no matter how hard I tried to force myself to wake up this time, the darkness and the phone in my trembling hand were real.
Ironically, my husband and I were packed and ready to go twelve hours before the phone rang. We’d planned a trip to my parents’ house to pick up our kids. After a two-week stay at Gramma and Grandpa’s house, it was time for them to come home. The sky was beginning to show light when we pulled out of the driveway and travelled toward the sunrise. But I knew no matter how fast we drove, there were 425 agonizing miles between me and my kids. There was no way we’d get there before they woke up, and their grandma would have to tell them that last night, as they slept, Grandpa suffered a fatal heart attack. Not only would she be dealing with her own pain and disbelief, but that of four young hearts whose world would be turned inside out.
Days later, as family and friends were leaving Dad’s funeral, the pastor of the church took me aside and said, “Your mom needs you now. It’s your job to be strong for her. You have to be strong.” I was too numb by overwhelm to object, and I nodded as he patted my shoulder and walked away. With those words, the well-meaning pastor handed me an armload of bricks; almost too heavy to carry. But I took them and held them close, hoping the weight wouldn’t break me.
For the next few weeks, my husband was not himself. He was understanding and supportive — and for now, his unpredictable temper seemed to be under control. He’d gone home and back to work, while the kids and I spent the rest of our summer with my mom, attempting to help her pick up the pieces and move forward. But as August came to an end, I too, had to get back to work and prepare the kids for a new school year. Unfortunately, once our family settled into a normal routine, my husband’s abusive behavior returned. I thought back on the pastor’s words and reminded myself to be strong, trying not to buckle under the weight I was carrying.
Just after Christmas, I found myself sitting in that same dark hallway, where a wave of familiar grief washed over me. Not only was I still mourning the loss of my dad — but the loss of what I was preparing myself to let go of. In my heart, I knew I had to leave, but coming to terms with it was devastating. I was the wrecking ball that would demolish the only life my kids and I had ever known.
I lost my dad on a rainy day in July and less than a year later, I was desperately trying not to lose my way. My failing marriage had turned into a danger zone, and I was desperate to escape. On a Saturday afternoon, while my husband was out of town, I packed my fear and shame into a metaphorical suitcase; the same way I packed a trunkful of boxes into my car. I was leaving everything behind — friends, familiarity, and the little house I’d grown to love. I’d be starting over, and next to staying married, it was the scariest thing I’d ever done.
The next year moved in slow motion. I was lugging around another load of bricks, struggling to survive as a single mom. The heavy losses were adding up. My dad, my marriage, my home, and my purpose. My self-esteem was about to find its way onto the list.
Hoping to resume my side-gig as a humor columnist, I submitted a sampling of published work to a local newspaper. I was bluntly told, “Your writing isn’t very good, and frankly, I don’t think you’re funny.” More bricks. So heavy, that for the next decade, I stopped sharing my work. My confidence was buried in the rubble and everything I wrote was promptly stuffed into a drawer.
But I couldn’t not write and continued to put words on the page. I scribbled stories and poured the heavy overwhelm of my life into countless notebooks. Through ink-smudged journal entries, fiery essays, and chapter outlines, I realized the weight of all I’d been carrying was getting lighter. I was using my heartbreak and losses to build something new. It became clear that writing wasn’t just a creative outlet — it was a survival tool.
Every brick is an imperfect block of hardened clay whose cracks and weathered edges were once a part of me, and I could’ve used them to construct a fortress or a wall. Thankfully, I chose to build a road. A rough, uneven path that has led me out of the darkness and back into my life.
For a long time, I wondered if I had grieved properly. Friends were concerned because I didn’t seem sad enough. My mother described me as stoic and encouraged me to have a good cry. I’ve never been good at following the rules — so rather than shedding tears, I sit at the keyboard and write my way through it. And as I look behind me, seeing the miles of road I’ve created and traveled, I’m confident I did it right. I’ve been battered along the way, but never broken. The journey has made me stronger than I ever thought I’d be. Word by word, step by step, and brick by brick, I’ve managed to find my way.
