Walking with Grief During a Pandemic
How I manage when the pain mirrors old trauma
After my father died, I grew to understand grief through a series of analogies. First, there was the ball in the box analogy, which suggests grief is a button in a box with a bowling ball. The giant ball presses against it, activating a painful grief response. Over time, the ball shrinks to the size of a marble, still there, but causing pain less frequently and with less intensity. And then I heard the backpack analogy, where you first carry grief like an impossibly heavy backpack that grows lighter and smaller with time. In both analogies, eventually, the unimaginable pain becomes manageable.
For the most part, the analogies worked for me. I cycled through periods of deep grief and hostile anger after losing my dad, but the pain did subside years later. I landed in a place where I feel mostly settled. I miss him, but I can think about him and feel connected to him without experiencing an overwhelming sense of pain. My emotions are manageable and predictable. The ball grew smaller, and gradually, the backpack became lighter. I almost forget I’m carrying it.
That was, at least, before the pandemic.
After living through this year in various lockdown stages, I feel disconnected from linear time again, the same way I did during the early stages of grief. The loss of predictability, the isolation, the bracing for the unknown, and the waking up and trying to remember what day it is and what is actually happening feels terribly familiar. This experience has resurfaced my grief in unpleasant ways.
The sharp pain is back, and it’s difficult to manage. Every few days, I find myself back in the bargaining phases of grief, willing to do anything to return life to normalcy, and that’s reactivated a similar stress response. Sometimes, these feelings often unmanageable. I’m experiencing grief outside of these initial ball and backpack metaphors, so I created my own to help me navigate this resurgence of pain.
I wear a metal bracelet that reminds me of my dad. I always think of him when the light catches it. Usually, it’s a soft, comforting light. But sometimes, the bracelet catches the sun at a dangerous angle that hurts my eyes and stops me in my tracks, and prevents me from seeing the rest of the world around me. I’ve grown to understand grief through the analogy of that tiny mirror that dangles on my wrist and catches the light.
The initial loss felt like a burning spotlight that illuminated the bracelet and ricocheted back into my eyes. The intensity made it difficult for me to see or focus on anything else. That painful light has caught me off guard many times since my dad died, like when someone said a triggering word or shared their own traumatic grief experience. Again, usually, the light is soft and beautiful. But lately, like that initial burning light, it’s blinding. It pierces through at the worst times, and all I can do is cover it, close my eyes, and hide. In those moments, I feel pulled back into those early weeks of pain and trauma, and that makes sense because, lately, because my pandemic experience mirrors my grief experience in many ways.
There are two ways that this metaphor is helping me navigate this.
First, I remind myself that I’m not alone. After my dad died, people applauded me for speaking at his service, caring for my mom, and continuing my (required) work travel, and I resisted this. Being praised for the way I was surviving made me feel responsible for holding everything together. I worried that if I stopped maintaining this façade of bravery, the world could collapse, which would be my fault. I felt like I had to pretend the light wasn’t there — actively harming me. I wanted to appear normal, like everyone else. But now, I’m not the only one feeling the pain.
Similarly, I feel for the 2017 version of myself trying to navigate life when I was suffering. I feel for essential workers who are celebrated for continuing to work without having another realistic option. I feel for parents who are struggling to work from home and homeschool their children. I feel for people experiencing unprecedented levels of loneliness. It’s overwhelming. It’s unfair. It’s frightening. But we’re all navigating life with a blinding light interfering together.
Second, I’m applying the same emotional care regimen that my therapist recommended to me in the midst of traumatic grief. It’s simple. When I feel overwhelmed, I set a timer and give myself two minutes to fully feel the emotions, whatever they are. I can cry or shred paper or hold a plank. I bring the feelings to the surface, and then I let them go. I always feel better after, until the feelings resurface again, and then I do the two minute release. Practicing this gives me a sense of control because I choose when and how the feelings come out. But the important thing is not I’m holding them in and trying to hold it all together.
And I keep reminding myself that, like grief, I didn’t choose this experience. I didn’t choose for my dad to die. It’s the hardest and most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, and I’m not proud of myself for navigating that — I’m sad I had to.
I also didn’t choose to live during a global pandemic. We weren’t given any time to plan or prepare for this, and we weren’t offered alternative options. We’re experiencing trauma. The light caught us off guard. And being separated from my friends and my family and support system makes everything extra difficult. Suffering through these experiences isn’t an act of bravery; it’s an act of endurance.
We just need to care for each other, and we need to stop our own bleeding first. It is not brave or safe or healthy to stare into the light.
Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for taking care of yourself.
You’re doing enough.
