I have always been a daddy’s girl. My father was my rock, my support, my counselor and my guide. With two very strong clashing personalities in the house—my mom and me—my father was the one who navigated our family out of troubled waters time and again. A medical legend, he started his career with treating blood diseases in children, so it was weird to find that, at the height of his fame and career, he was diagnosed with an end-stage rare and very aggressive cancer that had found its way into his blood.

Despite the poor prognosis, he continued his work as a global advisor for public health and community health projects to national and international governments and non-government agencies. Ironically, he contracted the public menace—dengue—in his weakened post chemotherapy state, and passed away fighting the same diseases he spent a lifetime saving others from.

I had always read that grief has five stages, but you always think that these things are what happen to others. And then, I had to face them myself. Here’s what I learned.

How I Experienced the 5 Stages of Grief

Stage 1 of Grief: Shock

That moment, when the doctor walked out of the ICU to tell me my father had suffered a cardiac arrest, will be etched in my mind forever. Even as they tried to save him in vain, I stood by his inert body in utter disbelief. Three weeks earlier, he had been hale and hearty and his normal self. All kinds of hospital emergencies imaged from movies and TV serials went through my mind. I remembered those scenes where the doctor would tell the loved ones to speak to the patient, and the heart of the patient would miraculously start beating again. I tried cajoling him, pleading with him, shouting at him, even outright threatening him. But the heart monitor did not respond. I thought of scenes where someone would bang on the chest and the heart would start beating again. But no amount of CPR brought him back. In the end, I had to face the fact that he was gone.

It is a moment where different parts of your being seem to operate at different speeds. The past, the present and the future seem to collide in disjointed images, and the overwhelming feeling is that of shock and bewilderment. People around you tell you things, and you are both listening yet not listening at the same time. Perhaps this is the feeling of your soul being ripped apart, as part of you dies with your loved one. And yet, the rest of you is anchored in reality, where there are others to take care of and formalities to get through. And you plunge into a haze of activity as you try to banish your loss to the deepest and darkest recesses of your mind.

I had always read that grief has five stages, but you always think that these things are what happen to others

Stage 2 of Grief: Denial

No one is prepared for death of a loved one, whether it comes suddenly or after a long illness. But time doesn’t give you the luxury of grief immediately. In my case, I was immediately plunged into formalities—getting the hospital paperwork completed, making arrangements for the body to be taken home. These days you have mobile mortuaries that keep the body preserved at home till it is time for last rites.

I remembered my dad telling me stories of when my maternal grandfather had passed away and he had, with much difficulty, arranged for huge blocks of ice, that were salted to keep from melting, so that they could keep the body at home. And it hit me—I was already referring to Dad as a body. The thought seemed to freeze every molecule in me. This could not be happening. This wasn’t true. Dad was not… I could not even bring myself to say the D-word mentally. Someone asked me a question, and I shoved these thoughts away, again into far corners of my mind, in vain hope that if I don’t think of it, it won’t be true. And paradoxically I plunged into the next formality that needed to be completed. The body needed to be dressed properly because if you wait too long, the body goes cold and rigor mortis sets in. In this state, the body goes rigid and inflexible, and it is next to impossible to dress or re-position it. With the clock ticking, all these transactional activities kept me going, till we brought Dad back home, late at night, and there was nothing left to do till morning.

No one is prepared for death of a loved one, whether it comes suddenly or after a long illness

Stage 3 of Grief: Anger

As I lay down in bed, wide awake at 3am, all the thoughts I had been shoving away spilled over. This is the time when you should never be alone, even if the other person is sleeping or doing something else. The sense of loss, of loneliness, of all the things that will never be, hits you with a force that can take your breath away. Indeed, for a while, all I did was sit and count my breaths as time and distance warped in my mind. Snapshots from the past, his voice, his little actions, his idiosyncrasies all tumbled together in a kaleidoscope with what had been an expected future timeline with him, morphing to a timeline without him. And then came the rage, the injustice of it all. My dad, who had spent a lifetime saving others, had been failed by the very people he had taught. He, who treated and cured others, was lost to the very diseases that he had fought. Anger against cancer, against dengue, against the hospital, the doctors, against fate. Rage, disbelief and utter loneliness ripped through me night after night that first week, as sleep remained elusive.

Stage 4 of Grief: Bargaining

Surely it had not been his time yet. His own father had passed away just seven years ago. His own uncles were still alive. Dad easily had another 10 – 15 years in him. He was beyond particular about his health, waging war on salt, sugar and oil at home and at work. He meticulously monitored all his vital signs. When he passed away, apart from his blood report, every other report and organ was normal. He was a prime specimen for his age, even after cancer had decided to strike. In truth, he did not suffer much, as it had been just three weeks when we first discovered something might be wrong, and just one week from final diagnosis to his death.

The sense of loss, of loneliness, of all the things that will never be, hits you with a force that can take your breath away

Stage 5 of Grief: Acceptance

The last stage of grief is acceptance. There are moments where I feel I have accepted his absence. And then something triggers and I find myself back at one of the earlier stages. Sometimes I wonder if I really want to reach acceptance. Would it not be a travesty to not honor his loss? At other times, I tell myself, this is what he would want. To keep his memories alive through practising all that he taught me, and honor his life by living mine to the fullest, just as he did.

Conclusion

I don’t know what the future holds. I just know that I still expect him to walk through the door, with a smile on his face and a project on his mind. And if he saw me crying, he would just sit with me in silent support. In spirit, he will always be with me.

The post How I Experienced the 5 Stages of Grief appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Managing significant losses in our life can be a full-time occupation for a period of time, and we need to give it our full attention. The following five stages are not linear but cyclic. The grief of a heartbreak comes in waves but, with good awareness and self-care, we can become more resilient, more caring and loving for the future, knowing that the pain will lessen.

Let’s look at the five stages that one goes through while dealing with a heartbreak:

5 Stages of Overcoming a Heartbreak

Stage one: Grieving

1. A heartbreak is a difficult experience, so allow yourself to cry (yes, even if you’re a man!); tears heal
2. Exercise and move your body. It shifts stuck energy and creates endorphins in the brain that make us feel better. Even gentle exercise brings oxygen to the brain that improves our ability to see things clearly. While it’s normal when sad to want to stay in bed and sleep all day, make an effort to get up and get out
3. Spend time with good friends who will hug you and feed you nourishing food. You might want to avoid being alone for a while
4. Communicate, talk it out, particularly with a therapist. You need someone who will really listen, and not interrupt or just wait to tell you their own experience of a heartbreak experience, or minimise it, offer sympathy that makes you feel worse, or false cheeriness as in “think of all the good things you’ve got!” Don’t expect friends to be your therapists.

Stage two: Reflection

1. Have you experienced many previous losses? Unresolved grief can accumulate and become more painful. If you’ve never experienced this level of pain before, some of these coping skills are needed.
2. Identifying disappointments will help to point to our unrealistic expectations. Were we deceived or did we deceive ourselves? Or both? Did we not see clearly who the other really was?
3. In retrospect, we can see what we may have not seen, or blinded ourselves to, and be wiser for the future.
4. Avoid the trap of beating yourself up. It’s not fair to blame yourself for not knowing then what you now know. Taking responsibility not to be deceived in the future, however, is essential, and it’s very different from blame.

Stage three: Managing loss

1. This involves taking responsibility for our own emotions. No one can make us feel anything without our (unconscious) agreement. We cannot change what has happened, but we can choose how we respond
2. Avoid negative coping styles such as drugs, alcohol, risky behaviour or chronic distractions. Plan activities that are nurturing and enjoyable instead
3. Take time off if you can. Avoid burying yourself in work to distract yourself. If you have to work and/or have commitments to care for others, make sure you also allow time out to let yourself feel, to work through the process
4. Go away, if only for a short time. Scenery that does not trigger painful memories is helpful to the healing process. If you can’t leave, maybe you could change your furniture around or repaint the walls. Create a difference in your living space, to lay down new memories and new feelings.
5. You might consider a change in appearance—a new haircut or a change in wardrobe. It’s remarkable how different we can feel when we have a new look.

Stage four: Healing

1. Work out what you need and find ways to give this to yourself
2. Whenever you feel resentment, it’s likely because there’s something you really don’t want. Give yourself the choice of not agreeing to what you don’t want to do. You’ll be pleased with yourself for looking after your “self”. Resolve to give what you want to give to others only from a full heart and with complete agreement instead of grudgingly. This might mean adjusting from the compliance of “always being nice” to being decisive and assertive, while still being polite
3. Practise being in the present. Save pondering the past for therapy sessions, and leave it there, while you get on with what needs to to be done in your life now. It’s important to realise that until past issues have been resolved, we can be frequently triggered by seemingly trivial situations in the present, and react in a way that’s out of proportion. It’s an indication that we need to look at what is really being triggered. For example, Jana’s fury at the lack of consideration shown by a work colleague preoccupied her for days. In therapy, she realised this incident had evoked her resentment of the lack of consideration and appreciation shown by her ex-partner, and before that, by her father. As a child she’d felt helpless when disregarded, particularly when she herself behaved considerately. Once this was put into perspective, Jana was able to see that as an adult she was able to communicate more assertively and effectively. This realisation changed her childhood conditioned habit of accepting others’ values when they imposed on her own, to valuing herself as an equal. Her next relationship was more reciprocal, and Jana was much happier with both herself and her new partner, as well as being more valued at work.

Stage five: A new relationship?

1. Make the list. It’s a sign the grieving process is over when we realise we’re looking to the future and a possible new relationship. However, to avoid old mistakes, make a list of all the qualities you want in your ideal mate in the first of three columns down a page. Examples include: ‘kind’; ‘emotionally available’; ‘monogamous’; ‘in touch with emotions and able to express them’; ‘good communicator’; ‘financially stable’; ‘a considerate lover’ and so on. Then, down the middle column of your page, rate yourself on a scale of 0–10 on each of these qualities. Be honest and fair. If in any of these qualities you rate yourself 7/10 or less, resolve that you need to work on yourself on these. The reason is we need to feel equal to our partner, and if they are, say, 10 on some quality while we rate ourselves as 4/10, we might not feel we deserve them, and might unconsciously sabotage the relationship. Give yourself some time to work on what you’d like to improve. Six months to a year is not an unreasonable amount of time for this. When a prospective new partner arrives, see how well you can tick off the boxes. Don’t accept anything less than a great match
2. Make sure you’re ready. A relationship on the rebound, when we’re still smarting, angry, needy or in pain, is not likely to last. Ask yourself: Can you be comfortably alone with yourself? Can you fill your time with activities that are restful, emotionally nourishing or mentally stimulating? If you answered yes, congratulations, you have overcome your heartbreak. You are now ready to bring far more acceptance and love to a relationship, and appreciate what your partner brings, too.

The post How to Overcome a Heartbreak and Start Living Again appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Thursday night, I held his hand as he watched television; it felt so surreal. How does anyone cope knowing these are possibly final moments? Friday, driving Dad to the hospital, I knew this was possibly my last drive with him. I told him, “You are the most patient person I know. I love you, Dad.” I tried to be positive, calm and strong. I wanted the car warm, and the drive peaceful. I needed dad, my hero, to be in the best possible state for his operation; mentally and physically.

The horror week begins

Friday night. My horror week began! As a crisis and grief counsellor, I know the signs of anxiety, shock, and grief, but this week they overcame me. Dad’s operation caused many complications in his liver, heart, blood pressure, kidneys, and brain function. When he finally regained consciousness, after a few terrifying days, he could hardly mutter a word; then he quickly developed delirium. Even though his eyes seemed to recognise me, he was speaking incoherently. He mumbled about paranoid conspiracies of nurses wanting to kill him. He refused medical treatment and the family were called in to give permission for life-saving procedures and to be prepared in case he “crashes”. This mental decline of Dad was not anticipated. While we were told it is normal to develop “ICU delirium”, I wanted to know where Dad’s mind had gone… Would it return? I’d never heard of this type of psychosis.

I no longer slept well, often waking, worrying about Dad

I was stuck in a horror movie; the family talked about legalities, the living will, power of attorney, and possible death. “I will not discuss his funeral! We need to be positive!” I said. I recognised disassociation, as I kept re-playing the family’s words, over and over. This doesn’t feel real! So, this is how it ends for my Dad, my hero? I’m in my client’s world of crisis, and I recognise the signs. I feel acidity, no appetite, and I’m trying to keep fear thoughts at bay. I suppress my fear, but then develop anxiety as waves of emotions, suppressed deep inside me, that rise up, and “break me” at any moment. I gave up suppressing the tears. I ordered coffee from the hospital cafe with tears streaming down my face. The love songs in the cafe angered me. Why did “Islands in the stream” have to come on the radio? Dad loves country music. My sister and I stormed out in protest! My dad was dying … Stop the music!

Signs of despair

I no longer slept well, often waking, worrying about Dad. Has he just died? Nana even “came to me in a dream” and shook her finger with disapproval. [I’d been telling her, “Go away, Nana. You can’t take Dad!”]. I felt constantly cold, another sign of shock. The adrenaline and coffee kept me strong for hours of visits, but the fatigue kicked in and I had to drive back home for two days to recharge. I hated being away from dad.

A big cloud had overcome my life; I recognised this as “preparatory grief”. I felt disconnected to everything, except Dad. I cried, as I told hubby, “Nothing in the world seems important to me anymore; just Dad!” I retreated from work. I lost all interest and felt like a turtle hiding in a shell. I didn’t want to talk to friends. I needed to conserve my energy. I texted updates, which helped me come to terms with the reality of this situation. I’d cry as I’d read, “Dad’s organs are shutting down. His kidneys are not working well. His liver could be failing. He may not recover from the delirium.”

I’m normally calm, but was finding myself becoming angered easily

My mum said she missed me, even though I was beside her. I missed me. Knowing how grief causes marriage issues, I consciously kept connected to hubby, but had little energy for anyone else. “You cannot control life,” he said. I needed to hear this. I can’t keep dad alive with my love… but I’m going to keep trying.

My mind would sometimes become disobedient; I’d see myself at dad’s funeral going over a speech. Stop! Dad is not dead! I know enough about the mind and energy to know that living in the present, in the now, is essential. I worked hard at keeping funeral thoughts out of my mind; instead, I kept visualising positive improvements.

I’m normally calm, but was finding myself becoming angered easily [another grief stage]. My sister and mum annoyed me, the nurses made me angry with their blunt updates. This anger distorted my thoughts. Why was Dad on so many sedating painkillers? Were they trying to kill him? Do they need the ICU bed? I was frustrated, hyper alert, impatient, and felt trapped in a world of trauma.

Shielding my dad

I resigned myself, even though it was hard, to leave the medicine mostly up to the experts. My role was to ensure Dad was surrounded by love, loving touch, and constant positive words. Knowing about the subconscious mind, I needed to ensure that dad [even though he couldn’t really talk] could hear all the improvements he was making. I would often say, “Your skin is a good colour. Blood pressure is going well. Your surgery is healing well.” I didn’t want dad hearing any negative, as his subconscious mind was too vulnerable.

Over one hundred friends and family prayed, sent good wishes, lit candles, and sent love

I kissed him over 30 times on the forehead, and held his hand, over the many days. Sometimes he’d turn his head when I’d take my hand away; his eyes seemingly said, “Don’t go.” I felt like my love was making a difference.

Nonetheless, I was losing hope, and needed to take action. In a desperate attempt to send more loving energy to Dad, I turned to my friends and family on Facebook and asked for prayers and good wishes. Over one hundred friends and family prayed, sent good wishes, lit candles, and sent love. I even had strangers sending love!

The miracle called love

As I write this, it’s eight weeks since his operation, and Dad is now walking, talking, and enjoying life at my brother’s home. During his last week in the hospital, his mind and body recovered well. He looked forward to his daily wheelchair rides around the hospital where he would meet the canteen staff, and hospital helpers, who had heard so much about him. For many weeks, everywhere I went, people asked, “How is your Dad?” The power of Facebook at the time when I needed support was incredible.

We are all connected… we all feel each other’s pain, and we can all help each other heal. In this challenging time in my life, I felt this love from my friends, family, and even strangers, as tangible, and instrumental in Dad’s healing. I also believe that it was my 30 kisses that helped save him.

The post How a daughter’s love helped this dad recover sooner from surgery appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

My friend lost a family member recently and shared with me that harder than dealing with her own grief was managing the well-intentioned, yet unhelpful and often inappropriate responses of others.

Reflecting on our conversation, I felt called to compile a list of helpful and unhelpful responses when confronted with the news that someone we know has experienced a loss.

How NOT to Respond to Someone’s Grief

1. Don’t ask what happened

The grieving person or family has probably already repeated the story of what happened dozens of times. Don’t ask what happened, how it happened, how it could have been avoided and indulge in a hundred other kinds of meaningless deliberations. This only stirs up their painful memories repeatedly and it is neither kind nor sensitive. If they want to share the story with you, they will do so on their own at the right time without your prodding.

2. Don’t say, “If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask”

This is the most common thing people said to my friend. She said it wasn’t helpful as it put the entire onus of figuring out what to do and who to ask on her, which further added to her sense of anxiety and feeling of being overwhelmed.

3. Don’t ask, “What are you going to do now?”

This question is entirely out of place for someone going through a grieving process. It reminds them of their uncertain future and forces them to confront practical considerations when the real priority is simply to stay present in the heart and allow the train of emotions to move through. Asking questions about what will happen next is actually intrusiveness disguised as care and compassion.

4. Don’t be completely absent / silent

Another inappropriate response is not showing up, not acknowledging when someone has lost a loved one because we feel we don’t know what we can possibly do or say that could be helpful. People do notice that you knew and never called, nor made any effort to connect. The idea that “I wanted to give them space” is no excuse to say or do nothing at all! While it is true that there is possibly nothing you can do to take away their pain entirely, your attentive presence itself can be soothing and quietly reassuring.

How to Respond Thoughtfully to Someone’s Grief

1. Listen and hold the space

Just be around. Be available. Sit with the grieving person and allow them to share whatever they wish to. Often they will have nothing much to say. Still just be there. Let wave after wave of emotion and tears come and go. Sometimes there is nothing but a kind of numbness. Hug or hold their hands as appropriate. Physical touch is incredibly healing. Pure listening without suggestions and advice is incredibly healing. Your undistracted presence is the greatest gift.

2. Share memories of the deceased

It is very meaningful for them to hear how their loved one touched your life in memorable and significant ways. It expands and enriches their narrative of how this life contributed to the larger tapestry of life as a whole. It reduces the sense their loved one died before their time or that everything is meaningless. They begin to realize that more important than the days in our life is the life in our days. Thinking of a person in terms of their qualities also enables us to look beyond the loss of their physical body. Bodies are temporary. Qualities are forever and live on through each of us.

3. Share how you dealt with your grief

If you have ever suffered loss then share your insights on how you dealt with it. Keep it real. Keep it practical. Share with empathy and without expecting that your experience will necessarily be the same as theirs.

Related » How to Deal With the Grief of Losing a Loved One

4. Do what you can

Instead of saying “Let me know if there is anything I can do for you?”, do what you can! Show up. Help out. Arrange food. Take phone calls. Lend your car. Make logistical decisions. Host visiting family or relatives. Allow the grieving person to “just be” as much as possible and take on as many of their responsibilities as you reasonably can. Actions speak louder than words.

I have used the words “lost” and “loss” many times in this article since that is what most people understand. However a more accurate word is “returned”—because they came into our lives from some place and have now returned to their original source. We cannot lose what is ours, we can only return what was borrowed. This subtle yet significant shift in understanding can enable us to do so with more grit and grace.

These are a few reflections from our conversation. Please share your own insights and observations.

The post How to Respond Thoughtfully to Someone’s Grief appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Of course, it was difficult for me. She didn’t hide her pain or zip it up safely inside for the sake of others, the way I was used to doing. Theresa was living in the centre of that hurt, anger and confusion. I don’t think I had ever let myself go that far. Sure, I’d been hurt, but I didn’t allow myself to be wounded. I may not have known it then, but Theresa was already so far ahead of me. She was going to be authentic no matter what the cost. “I’m not even transparent,” she tells me now. “I’m translucent. I can’t hide stuff.” But at the time, that was all I was good at.

Holding my friend in her time of pain

Sitting across from her, I felt like such an impostor. I hid the fact that I was scared, that I hadn’t yet experienced that typhoon of emotion, the life event that brings you to your knees. How was I supposed to help her if I hadn’t gone through it myself? So I just listened. I let her talk. I let her be silent. I stood witness to where she was at that moment. It was all I knew how to do.

But to Theresa, even my slapdash style of help meant the world to her. “Certain people don’t know how to negotiate pain. You held my pain in your hands like a slippery warm egg. I knew it wouldn’t break, not in your hands.” To hear those words now, I’m in awe of her. The level of trust that she brought to our friendship made me begin to trust myself. I was going to need it. My own storm was already on the horizon.

She didn’t hide her pain or zip it up safely inside for the sake of others, the way I was used to doing

I was his rock

It’s been about eight months since I’ve spoken with my nephew. He’s 16 now and has changed into someone who I don’t really recognise. Maybe all parents feel this way, but I wasn’t supposed to be his parent. I was supposed to be the fun aunt, who got to take him out for ramen and gyoza, and to films where people swear in different languages. But as time went by, I began to really care about that boy. Maybe because someone had to. His home life wasn’t ever stable after the divorce of his parents. He needed a rock, and I was it.

That’s probably why it hurts so much more now that he’s not in my life. Sometimes I wonder what I could have done differently? Other times, I’m angry with myself for opening up my heart, only to get hurt. There are even times when I catch myself reminiscing about his childhood. I see us laughing so hard, we’re rolling on the floor. I know this is the path he’s chosen, that the journey to being a man has some parts where you travel alone. But it’s hard to let go. It’s hard to be hurt.

I understood loss

Some time later, I truly understood what Theresa was feeling. I haven’t gone through a failed adoption, but I experienced someone, whom I had opened my whole heart to, walk right out of my life. I understood loss. I understood those feelings of confusion, anger and hurt. I knew what it was like to be brought to your knees. If Theresa had seen me during this time, she would have recognised the vacant look in my eyes, the taste of heartache in the air. But I didn’t let her in on my suffering. I wasn’t as brave as she was. Still, throughout this whole process, Theresa has been on my mind. I realise now that she’s the strongest person I know. And not just for surviving life’s trials but for allowing me to see that fragile part of herself, for trusting me with her tired heart, for accepting my vain attempts to try to make her feel better. Whether I like it or not, she’s been trying to do that for me now.

If Theresa had seen me during this time, she would have recognised the vacant look in my eyes, the taste of heartache in the air

You may ask, what’s the point of vulnerability?

You may want to save yourself all that hurt. Stay at home and eat cup-o-noodles for one. I guess I could look at things that way too. But I’ve lived enough life to know that the lesson isn’t always visible. The thing about vulnerability is that sometimes you will get hurt, and you’ll get hurt bad. I don’t want to deny that that’s not a possibility, having gone through my own private tour of hell. But the experience of being vulnerable, of holding your precious heart out to someone else, opened my world so much more than it would have been. If I hadn’t let my nephew into my heart, I wouldn’t see the world the way I do now. The colours are richer, the feelings are deeper and the tastes are more immediate. And wouldn’t you want to read something from a writer who has tasted despair and hurt, joy and elation with all of her being rather than someone holed up in the middle of nowhere, not living?

What being vulnerable taught Theresa

Theresa has said that the experience of that adoption journey has made her more grateful for the two beautiful children she was finally able to adopt. “I definitely appreciate my kids more. I appreciate the kids for their strength. We all fought to get to each other.” And while she’s still healing from losing her first adopted child, she acknowledges all the gifts she’s gained because of it. “My children, when they hear that story someday about the brother they have but don’t have will be able to appreciate vulnerability as a strength. If that story hadn’t happened, they wouldn’t have happened. I want my kids to value vulnerability.”

Vulnerability deepens the connection between two people. it makes your life richer

But she also acknowledges that vulnerability is a never-ending process. “Parenthood, it flays you open on a daily basis. Things you didn’t think would hurt you, do. When my daughter doesn’t want to kiss me good night, it hurts. But it’s birthing. I keep telling myself that we’re not done yet,” she says. And we will never be done. But with each encounter, we will love deeper and hope deeper. We will not be afraid to show our hearts. Isn’t that what it means to be human?

Vulnerability deepens the bond

When you’re vulnerable, it means you’re open. You’re allowing yourself to be yourself, to be authentic. In a relationship, this quality is non-negotiable. If you’re only going to hide behind your veneer, the other person will never truly get to know you with all your quirks and flaws. When we are vulnerable, it allows us to be receptive to love, and it gives the other person an opportunity to give love and practise compassion. Vulnerability deepens the connection between two people. And it makes your life richer.

The post Vulnerable folks live richer lives appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

A couple was going to visit a friend. They waited at the bus stop. Suddenly the husband realised that his wallet was missing. The wallet contained a good amount of money and naturally he was upset. He tried to search all his pockets. He was quite sure he had put it in his left pocket when he left home, but where had it gone? He called his son at home and asked him to check his drawers to confirm he had not left it there. He even re-traced a few steps to see whether he had accidentally dropped the wallet somewhere. But the wallet was nowhere to be found. Dejected and disheartened, he stood there wondering what to do. The bus which he had to board arrived. He wouldn’t get into the bus. Another one came but he still wouldn’t get into it. When the third bus came and he was not willing to board it, his wife asked him, “Are we going to sit and cry here all the time? Are we going to be here worrying about the lost wallet or are we going to move on? If so, what’s the use?” It’s as simple as that. What’s done is done. What’s gone is gone.

Close the door to the past

This is a lesson that each one of us has to learn. There are so many situations and circumstances in life that are not to our liking. But how long can we allow ourselves to wallow in sorrow and self-pity? The call of life is Onward, Forward, Godward! Close the door to the past, open the door to the future, take a deep breath, step on through and start a new chapter in your life.

The call of life is Onward, Forward, Godward!

Another example: when a very dear one passes away, suddenly, how long will we keep on weeping over it? There was a woman who came to me and said, “Three months ago I lost my husband and I have been weeping, shedding tears day and night.” And she said to me, “I am not exaggerating but I tell you literally during these three months I must have wept at least three buckets of tears.” Three buckets of tears, just imagine! I said to her, “You have wept three buckets of tears, has your husband come back?” She said, “How can my husband come back? They took him to the cremation ground, they burnt the body, all we got was a little ash.” Then I asked, “What is the use of shedding all those tears? Why don’t you put your feelings to some useful purpose?”

Her husband was a leader of his community and I told her, “There are so many things that you must be knowing about him that are not known to the people, why don’t you sit and write your reminiscences?” She liked the idea and started doing that. She came to me after a year, on the first anniversary of her husband’s death—she had that book published. And her face was wreathed in smiles. She said, “It was a wonderful suggestion, and I have been feeling so peaceful ever since I have followed it.”

They took him to the cremation ground, they burnt the body, all we got was a little ash

Do your best, forget the rest

True acceptance in the right spirit is a dynamic concept which encourages us to do our very best, to put forth our best efforts to achieve what we desire. But if we cannot achieve those results, you must accept it as the will of God, in the knowledge that there must be some good in it. As I always say, there is a meaning of mercy in all the incidents and accidents of life.

In one of his books, Joel Osteen says, “You must make a decision that you are going to move on. It won’t happen automatically. You will have to rise up and say, ‘I don’t care how hard this is, I don’t care how disappointed I am, I’m not going to let this get the best of me. I’m moving on with my life.”

I remember how one day Gurudev Sadhu Vaswani visited Manney’s Bookshop in Pune. As we were looking at the new arrivals, I came across a book titled My Philosophy. So I took this book to him and said, “This is a new arrival, may be you will be interested in it. This book contains philosophies of many great ones, but tell me what is your philosophy?” He answered, “My philosophy! The philosophy of acceptance, I know of nothing higher. Nothing outer can hurt you for the universe is not merely just, the universe is essentially good. The cosmic soul is love and humanity is his bride.”

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But it happens. There is pain so searing that we do, indeed, feel as if the very depths of our soul have been shredded to pieces. It’s no wonder we use words like ‘gutted’, ‘harpooned’, ‘turned inside out’. We feel as if our lives will never be the same [they won’t] and that the hurt will never go away [it will].

Here’s the thing though: despite the way it feels and despite the common words used to describe it, your soul cannot be wounded.

Know that the soul is infinite

Your soul is the epicentre of unseen energetic selves that’s tied to an omnipotent, omnipresent, intelligent force. Some call it God, Allah, Yahweh. I call it Source. Like a child tied to its mother in the womb with an umbilical cord, we receive connection and sustenance through this tie between soul and Source. This connection and these energetic spaces are infinite by nature. No awful human thing could ever alter that.

What you experience as retching pain is not your soul being destroyed but the story of your life being unceremoniously discarded. Though not a ‘soul wound’, the annihilation of your story is excruciating. The pain is the feeling of loss of what was. It’s the loss of a story so intricate that you based your entire life on it. Your mind races, your body aches, and your emotions feel heavy, all pulsing to some version of: what am I to do and who am I to be? This pain is the process of letting go.

What you experience as retching pain is not your soul being destroyed but the story of your life being unceremoniously discarded

Your story may be shattered

When my ex-husband came to me one balmy August evening to tell me he was having an affair, it became the first and most severe of several blows that left my life in shambles. By the end of September, I carried a wound so deep it became the chasm into which I fell flailing and utterly broken for many, many months to come. I had no idea what life was without standing beside the man who had stood beside me for so many years. I simply had no framework for a life without him.

I ended up across the country in my sister’s basement with two suitcases and little more than determination holding me together. Eventually a few boxes were delivered to the house to add to my belongings, the sorry remnants of what was once a full life, a full story.

In the beginning, I drifted through the days, determined to put on a good face. From outward appearances I looked okay. But inside I was lost. I drifted about like a ghost with nowhere to land.

Learn to look beyond the pain

Unexpectedly, I found myself waking up to the world around me: the feel of sunshine on my face or of the soft fur of a dog. These sensory pleasures brought me back into myself and back into the world—where my story awaited. Eventually I realised that life was still happening and unless I took charge, I would end up living a life stuck inside the wound and drifting about in confusion. I needed to make some decisions. I needed to move on.

Unexpectedly, I found myself waking up to the world around me

What I decided is less a story about what I let go of and more about what I embraced. If you had told me to let go of my anger and sadness at that point, I’d have been upset. Asking me to do that was like asking a mother to give up her child. I would have thought, “I have lost so much already. How could you ask me to let go of anything more?” The story I held onto might have been painful but it was what I knew and it was familiar—even if it only existed in the past.

So I didn’t let go. Instead, I embraced what was coming at me. You see you don’t have to make the seemingly impossible decision to let go if you instead choose to embrace the pleasure that is right in front of you: the smell of food cooking, the sound of your nephew’s voice, the weight of blankets in bed.

Make room for new experiences

The pain will be there. You can’t change that. But you can choose to embrace pleasure. And to be open to anything you have to let go of something. It’s the law of the Universe: there must be space available to take in something new.

Imagine a child that has been playing in the yard. You call her in for dinner and she runs to the door with her hands full of dirt. She stands there wanting to come in but when you tell her she has to put the dirt down to eat dinner she stubbornly says “No”. Her hands tighten. You see the strain. You know she’s hungry but she won’t give up the dirt because it’s what she has right now. Even the promise of something good in the future isn’t enticing enough to let go of what she has now. This child is you, your ego that is defiantly attached to your story.

It’s the law of the Universe: there must be space available to take in something new

Now picture that instead of asking the child to let go of the dirt you offer her a bite of the delicious dinner that awaits her inside. Imagine her mouth watering, realising just how hungry she is. She realises the evening air has cooled. And something warm awaits her inside. Will she let go of the dirt to accept this meal?

This is what happens when you let in the pleasure of what’s right in front of you. It just has a way of taking over. If you keep leaning into it, embracing it, the pain slips out. There just isn’t room for all the pain.

Be patient with yourself

Remember this is a practice. It can take time to shift from a state of chronic pain to becoming pain-free. While your soul is infinite, you are still very human, so have patience with yourself.

Remember that your deep wounds are a rite of passage into a privileged state of human existence. It’s from grief that we gain the greatest insights and deepest connection to Source.

Remember that your soul is not wounded. Your soul is a source of infinite energy and connection to a greater Source. You can rely on this connection and draw on it for solace, healing and inspiration. The pain you feel is a tear in the story you’ve created about who you are and the trajectory on which you were. This is an opportunity to create a different story.

Lean into pleasure. Embrace what’s in front of you. The smells, sights, sounds, tastes and feelings that you come into contact with—embrace them. They will guide you.

And know that these wounds are opportunities to go deeper, learn more and expand beyond what you were and what you are today. Lean in.

This was first published in the August 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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As a widow, I call it ‘moving forward’ because to me it’s not a matter of ‘moving on’. I know it’s semantics, I know the phrases are similar, but to me they represent such different moods. I will never move on from my loss. It will always be with me and it will always form who I am as a woman, as a mother, and as a person. I will forever love my late husband and I will forever grieve his loss. For me, moving forward means I accept all I have been given in this life and I have made the conscious choice to make positive forward steps with the days I have left. These steps for some time had included finding myself as a single woman, a solo mom, and a person of loss. Now these steps may also include a new and interesting twist to my life’s storyline—remarriage.

My new normal

For the most part I have become accustomed to my life post loss. Life never goes back to what it was before but I have learned to live a new normal and take it all in stride. My new normal includes many parts of my old normal, but the backdrop has shifted and the photos are minus one very important person. My new normal also includes my chapter two, and as we create new memories together, my life seems less awkward and out of place and more, well, normal.

Life never goes back to what it was before but I have learned to live a new normal and take it all in stride

For nearly three years post my husband’s passing away, I often saw my life from a strange, far off vantage point. I felt like I was an observer in my own world, watching from above, like I was living parallel lives. I could observe the life that I once had, complete with my best friend of 15 years and my two beautiful children.

At the same time I observed the new life I was actually living as I had begun to embrace being a widowed mother of two, and suddenly stumbled into a new relationship that was neither expected or requested. I can only explain this feeling as if I was floating above my body seeing it all, feeling it all, and yet somehow feeling completely out of place in both worlds. Huge parts of my being would pull me back to my old life while reality kept me in the present. You see, my chapter two does not replace my late husband. My chapter two is a completely different person and we are creating a whole different life, complete with the challenges that go along with my new reality.

The gifts of grief

My new reality comes with a knowledge I never had before. This knowledge keeps me balanced, centred and ever aware that my time on this earth is short and relatively insignificant. This new reality enables me to swing for the fences, follow my dreams and love in a way I cannot even put into words. You see with great loss comes this great perspective—I feel more deeply, I love more completely and I take each day in stride knowing my problems are only as big as I allow them to become. I call this perspective the gifts of grief. These gifts are priceless, yet I do not wish them on one additional person in this world. I wish you all this perspective minus the grief that normally accompanies them.

My chapter two does not replace my late husband; my chapter two is a completely different person and we are creating a whole different life

I wish I had been gifted this perspective before I lost Mitch. I wish I could have given him the love, the patience and the ability to not sweat the small stuff that I am able to gift to Keith, my amazing chapter two. I wish for each person who has not had to endure great loss to cherish these gifts second hand via the lessons from grieving. Life is short, and while you are here you should really dance. Don’t wait until you live in a parallel universe to figure out what really matters most. Embrace today for its many gifts and live endless and lovingly in the moment.

I believe that widows/widowers offer a unique and special perspective to their new relationships. They love deeper, they are more forgiving, and they appreciate life in a deep and profound way. I always say that those who are blessed enough to marry a widow/widower are given a rare and beautiful gift. Here are some tips for those who have decided to become the second chapter of someone’s life.

Tips for those marrying a widow/widower

1. Don’t rush their grieving process
   Grieving takes time and cannot be moved at a faster pace than the grieving person is ready for.
2. Don’t be jealous of the past
   Your partner loves you for you. Comparison is not necessary or helpful. Trust that love makes the heart expand and there is room for new love in their life.
3. Be understanding
   Grief comes at different times and in different ways. Lend an ear, a hug and realise you can’t fix the pain. There is no time limit on grief so don’t expect it to end when you say, “I do.”
4. Be accepting of family, both new and old
   Accept their in-laws and their children with loving arms.
5. Be confident of the future
   Nothing is more appealing than confidence in a spouse. This is your history to create with your new spouse.
6. Don’t judge
   Until you walk another person’s path you can’t fully understand their journey.
7. Love moments
   A widow/widower has a deep and profound appreciation for memories and moments over monetary possessions. Spend quality time.

[A version of this article was first published in the June 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.]

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“Suffering is simply the difference between what is and what I want it to be.”
— Dr Spencer Johnson

If you’re human, you’ve known loss.

Where there is life, there is loss.

And loss is a word that contains much more than the death of someone we love and lose.

It is the grief we experience as we watch a beloved parent disappear into the shadows as dementia eats away at their sense of self.

It is the death of a marriage that once held the hope and promise of lasting happiness.

It is the severing of a friendship when betrayal and hurt tear apart the tenderness of a cherished connection.

It is the alienation of a geographical move, far away from everything and everyone familiar and known.

It is our children growing wings and leaving home to soar in the big, blue skies of freedom.

Loss walks alongside us on this earthly journey—because every life transition involves a measure of loss. How we deal with our losses determines how we live our lives. Some of us shut down and barricade our hearts, afraid and anxious of being hurt again. Others are broken open by loss and, as a result, go on to live more expansive lives.

Every loss has something to teach us—if we care to listen. Here are three lessons that come to us through the experience of loss in our lives.

We are not alone

Our first response to loss is usually Why me? It is normal to feel alone and believe that our life is doomed. We feel an intense sense of alienation, because we notice the world continues to move on, whereas life as we have known it has come to a complete standstill. But when we pause, take a breath and connect with the larger truth, this is what we know: Everything that is born must die.

Pain is part of the human experience and no one gets a free pass. This very realisation connects us to the truth that we are not alone in our experience of grief. Everyone’s life has its own form of pain—whether it’s a divorce, a terminal illness, family feuds, teenagers making poor choices or addictions that topple entire families. Singer Jana Stanfield’s lyrics “You hurt just like me, I cry just like you” bring home this powerful truth. So, no matter who you are and no matter the nature of your pain, stop and close your eyes for a moment. Connect with millions of others all over the world who are walking in similar shoes—and you will feel a little less alone.

Focus on what matters to you

Anytime we suffer a loss, life has a way of narrowing the lens. We have the opportunity to reflect on what truly matters—and let the other stuff go. When my mother died in 2009, a powerful truth dawned on me—I don’t have all the time in the world. It jolted me to the urgency of living my life on purpose, investing my time and energies in what fuelled my passions. I could no longer take my time here for granted. Living in alignment with that principle, I focus on my top passions: writing, teaching, coaching and learning. I have little time for gossip, complaining, or indulging in activities that drain my energy. Our soul is here to deliver its gifts, talents and treasures, and living purposefully is about being mindful of our soul’s agenda. Australian author Bronnie Ware draws our attention to this in her best-selling book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. She says that the number one regret of the dying is: “I wish I’d lived a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” When a crisis awakens us, it offers us a second chance to evaluate our priorities.

Heal another’s broken heart and you heal yours

When we are steeped in the sorrow of our loss, we buy into the notion that God or the Universe is unfair, unfathomable and punishing. But if we take the energy of our pain and turn it into purpose by serving another, the very act of being a healing touch in another’s life mends what’s broken in us.

For me, visiting nursing homes to console and comfort the elderly who ached for companionship was the most healing act of self-care in the midst of mourning my mother. Service helped heal my broken heart in ways that I simply cannot articulate. It is my belief that the Divine energy of reaching out in love was returned to me a thousandfold. Spiritual teacher Neale Donald Walsh, best-selling author of the Conversations with God series, says, “Your life is not about you. It is about everybody whose lives you touch.”

Loss is life’s biggest and best teacher. The only question is: Am I a willing learner?

This was first published in the April 2016 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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Marriage, kids, house with picket fence, those were on my to-do list and I accomplished them quickly and efficiently. Married at the age of 20, a mother by 25, I even managed to produce three children by the time I was 30, because I was such an overachiever. But at the age of 31, I began to live an unexpected life.

We all do, actually. I have yet to meet one person who is living the life they pictured when they were 10 years old. Life twists and turns until one day you don’t recognise the road you’re on anymore. You could be like me and one of those turns could include losing someone you never thought you’d live without. Or you could be like the billions of other people out there who have lost a job, dealt with a messy divorce, infertility issues or any one of life’s disappointments. And if you have, you know that the one question you stop and ask yourself when the dust has settled is this: Now what?

Becoming the answer you’re looking for

The solution is actually simpler than you think. Because the truth is, you have two options: you can move forward or you can remain stuck where you are.

As I was riding home from the hospital after saying a final goodbye to my husband, my mother at the wheel, my eyes blinded by the sun I hadn’t seen in three days, I remember thinking over and over again, “I will have a good life. I will have a good life.” Even in the beginning throes of grief, I knew there was a decision to be made: I could allow myself to spiral and surrender to the black hole of emotional suffering. Or I could find my way out.

The happiness habit

Of course, thinking something and making it happen are two different things. In the years that followed, I had more moments of self-doubt than I care to remember and nights when I would lie on the floor of my bedroom after putting my three toddlers to bed and
let the tears stream down my face and soak the carpet. But it became my personal mission to find happiness again and to even find the humour in the situation in which I found myself.

Because I knew that if I lost that, I would have lost more than my husband. I would have lost myself as well.

Finding joy was like forming a new habit and writing was a big part of that process. As I began blogging about my journey under the name “Widow Chick”, I made a deal with myself: Each entry would find the humour or at least a lesson in whatever situation I found myself. When my four-year-old son threw a temper tantrum in the parking lot of the movie theatre and removed all of his clothes except his socks, of course I found that mortifying in the moment, but hysterically funny when I wrote about it a week later. When I brought someone I was dating to visit my husband’s grave only to find that the cemetery had dug a hole next to my husband for a new occupant, at which point my date asked, “That’s not for me, is it?,” I found that mildly uncomfortable when it happened, but wildly amusing later.

As I moved forward into a life I didn’t recognise anymore, writing became a map of where I’d been that helped me see where I was going. Life curved again and again, as it has a tendency to do, and I was able to remind myself that it was all necessary—the good, bad and ugly—in order to shape the person I’m meant to become.

That in order to find myself, I had to live and live fully, find the joy and comedy in the midst of self-evaluation and move ahead with what I’d learned.

That gave me the ability to look forward when something happened that I couldn’t understand in the moment. By forming that habit, I knew that at some point I would be able to make sense of those twists—maybe even find the joke—and that gave me the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Expecting the unexpected life

Years later, when the seed of writing the blog blossomed into the book Confessions of a Mediocre Widow, I wrote something that I remind myself of every day: I’ll never have a moment when I’ve done something idiotic [which is daily] that I won’t wish that Brad could be here to share that laugh with me. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped laughing.

Life is unexpected. Every moment we live is one we didn’t know was coming. One moment could be blissful, followed by an event we don’t know how to handle. And for a planner like me, well, that’s been a hard lesson to learn. But it’s a comfort to know that an unexpected life is something I have in common with each and every person I encounter.

And that my next joyful moment could be just around the next bend in the road.

This was first published in the October 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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