When Grief Reminds You That It Never Left

I’ve spent the last two years working on a documentary project with the historical society in my hometown. It has been a dream come true experience and I’m devastated that much of the work is over (for now.) I won't get into the nitty-gritty of what the documentary was about right now. A brief summary: there was a thriving Black community in St. Paul, Minn. that was destroyed when the state intentionally chose that neighborhood to build an interstate through. The documentary tells the stories of four men who endured that devastation yet still chose to give back to the city that had taken so much from them. Their stories are some of the most moving and powerful stories I’ve ever had the honor of telling. 

Excitement isn't a strong enough word to summarize how I felt when I began working on this project. At heart, I am many things, and one of them is a journalist. The other is a historian. And, the other, is someone who is insanely proud to be from Minnesota, especially as a Black woman, because our history and presence there are usually erased from existence. The project gave me the chance to bring together all the roles I’ve always loved—journalist, writer, author, history enthusiast, organization fanatic, and creative. These are hats that I’ve had trouble tapping into since entering motherhood over seven years ago. Honestly, these are roles I’ve struggled to reconnect with since I fearfully stepped away from journalism after earning my degree and chose to teach instead because it felt safer—but that’s a story for another time. I always imagined I’d return to journalism on my own terms, but once teaching collided with marriage and motherhood, it felt almost impossible. I was left mourning the woman I once was and fearing I’d never find her again.

Then this opportunity came along, and suddenly, I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. At last, I’d be able to see if the passions I once held dear were still where I buried them. And, they were. Every ounce of passion sprung back within my soul like a bursting well. I was smiling from ear to ear, full of adrenaline, and thankful that God saw how much I needed something like this. Little did I know, God brought me this work for much more than giving me an outlet for the passions I buried. He brought me this work as a way to force me to confront grief that I had also been burying for years, right along with those passions. For years, I have been burying grief for my father, moving away from my hometown, loss of friends and community, loss of the woman I was before becoming a mother, and many other losses that I didn’t even realize were losses until now. Grief that is buried does not disappear, and it will find ways to seep through whatever you’ve used to bury it to make itself known, whether that is through physical ailments, exhaustion, anxiety, or depression. I deal with all of the above on a rotating basis, and I never think to associate them with my buried grief. I always assume it’s related to surface-level challenges like motherhood, keeping up with housework, or other adult issues that cause trepidation. I am now realizing that the surface-level challenges merely exasperate the symptoms of grief. They are not the root cause. At least, not for me.

Grief that is buried does not disappear, and it will find ways to seep through whatever you’ve used to bury it to make itself known.

When I took this project on, I began having weekly meetings with four gentlemen who reminded me so much of my father, that it was uncanny. Between the cadence of their speech, their hand gestures, and their kind hearts, I felt as though I was having a conversation with four clones of my father every week. The project began over two years ago, and at the time, it had been about eight years since I lost my dad. In those eight years, I had managed to pretend that losing my father had little to no effect on me. I refused to admit that I thought about him all the time, that I constantly searched for his voice, and choked down tears every time I wanted to call him. Because my father died right before video cameras on phones were becoming a thing, I don’t have any video footage or audio clippings of his voice. Every voicemail he left me has long disappeared. Every text message he wrote as if he were sending a letter to a long-lost friend is also gone. I have pictures, which I’m grateful for, but not having any way to hear his voice or watch footage of him has made me feel he was disappearing from my imaginary grasp, and there was no way to get him back. 

There is not a day that goes by where I don’t fight an internal battle with this pain, but I’ve never let that pain escape. My friends and family witness nothing but smiles when they see me. I speak about my father in the present tense and tears do not spring into my eyes, even though my heart shatters every time I mention his name. I even began playing tennis again, which was the sport that served as our first bond. To the untrained eye, I appear to be “okay.” Soon, I found myself on Zoom calls with four gentlemen who were the same age my father was when he passed. Their familiar cadences and mannerisms were things I never expected to experience again. My heart grew in areas I thought I had closed off. I experienced that elderly father-figure love that I was craving and grieving the loss of as each of these gentlemen unexpectedly turned into family. And, the buried well of grief burst open. 

When it comes to dealing with pain, my default is to suppress and ignore it. I sprained my thumb a few months ago and it took nearly a week to realize I had done so. I’ve gone days without realizing I have a migraine. I stubbornly play tennis while injured. Emotional pain is no different. Not even two weeks after my father died, I jumped full throttle into a brand new teaching career. I threw myself into my work and convinced myself that my internal world was not on fire. Every time I have ignored or suppressed pain, whether physical or emotional, it never ceases to catch up with me. Ignored physical pain has led to a lifetime of chronic pain. Buried emotional pain has led to a lifetime of chronic illness, autoimmune disease, and hormonal imbalance. I know the consequences of suppression are dire, yet I couldn’t bring myself to face my deepest grief. I didn’t want to feel that pain. I didn’t want that well to burst open. I didn’t want those tears to flow. I knew that once my grief resurfaced, there would be no burying it again. And, I knew that since I had buried it for so long, the pain would feel 10x more intense than the day I buried it. I wasn’t ready. 

My grief didn’t care that I wasn’t ready. My grief needed to escape. It was already bursting at the seams. I couldn’t keep it concealed for much longer. God used this documentary project as an unexpected catalyst and vessel for my grief to surface and process what it needed to. My grief needed to tell me that I could no longer fool myself. My grief needed me to feel it, embrace it, and let it consume me. My grief needed to remind me that the love I have for my father did not deserve to be buried, and that grief is simply love looking for some place to land. 

About halfway through this project, we tragically lost one of the gentlemen who had become like an uncle to me. His kind heart, brilliant mind, and integral pursuit of his passions deeply reminded me of my father. He may have been the one who reminded me of my father the most. Much like my father, he was the glue that kept us together. Losing him felt like the biggest punch in the gut and forced me to relive the moment my hero was taken from me nearly ten years ago. My grief doubled. Every phone call and interaction with the remaining gentlemen felt extra tender and sacred. I wanted nothing more than to protect their hearts and show up for them in the way I hadn’t been able to for my father. The reality of fleeting time and life’s preciousness became all too real. 

My grief needed to remind me that the love I have for my father did not deserve to be buried, and that grief is simply love looking for some place to land. 

Once again, my pain demanded to be felt. And, this time, I couldn’t bury it. Every conversation with the remaining men, every minute of footage I had to review, every time I recorded a voice-over for the documentary, and every event we attended concluded with uncontrollable tears and a heart that yearned to trade it all in if it would bring both of these amazing humans back to us. 

As I sit here in this coffee shop writing this essay, I am resisting the urge to choke back tears as I would have once done. Grief is not meant to be buried. It is meant to be felt. Its waves are meant to be ridden. Its pain demands to not only be acknowledged but cared for. Grief will never leave you. It will forever sit in the passenger seat of your life, reminding you of its existence with every turn you take. As you glance to your left and right, waiting for the right moment to make your next move, grief will be right there beside you, watching to see if your next step is a safe place for it to follow too. When you’re on cruise control, grief is in your peripheral vision. When you feel an everyday emotion, grief intensifies that emotion just by being present. The issue is that we see grief as a problem. We want to push it out of the car, believing it's blocking our path. But in truth, grief is there to guide us, ensuring that we care for ourselves with tenderness, no matter what life throws our way.

Grief isn’t just the love you have for what you lost, searching for a place to land. It’s also the love that what you lost still has for you, reminding you that their love never left. By embracing your grief, you allow that love to embrace you in return.