Breathing room

As a coach, one of the ways I work with people is to help them see what they are grappling with from other perspectives. Why? It shakes something loose and helps them get unstuck. The reality is that there is truth in many perspectives.

Yesterday, I read a poem that shook me loose of the grip of grief. It couldn’t have happened at a more impactful time. Today is the day six years ago that my son Ben, in the hospital with an advanced brain tumor, woke up and realized he was ready to be off all the machines, and ultimately stop breathing as a result. All I could do was help make his last few hours as meaningful as possible. I SOS’d the moms of his friends. I called our family to let them know to come. They all worked together to spread the word. The night of October 30th, 2018 was filled with more joy and love in a hospital room than I would ever have believed possible. There was a slew of teenage boys, their parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and special friends spilling out of Ben’s room. They told stories, they laughed, they cried, we all shared words of deep gratitude and love. Then next day, riding that wave of love, Ben passed on to whatever comes next. And then? A vast emptiness ensued.

But here comes this poem yesterday:

Your storm is over.
It is time for you to rest
And revel in the beauty it left behind.

You do not have to live in survival mode.
You do not have to hold yourself back or question your place.
You do not have to replay your issues or recall what happened.
You do not have to worry about what’s coming next.

You endured, you learned, and you made it to the other side.
Now, instead of fixating
on what’s behind
look forward with love.

It’s kind of fascinating to have permission to “revel in the beauty of it” vs. being in survival mode or questioning my place. I would never have accepted this poem in this way 6 years ago. I share it because for me it’s rare that I come across something that shifts me from sinking into my grief – especially at this time of year – towards something light. I’ve grieved. I will always grieve Ben. No poem will ever make that go away. Yet it is a little like the whisper I heard from him early on after his death saying to me, “it’s ok to let go just a little.” Somehow it opens up just a little more space to breathe.

This is where I am today. I may very well be back to being a puddle tomorrow, but today I step into this breathing room and accept the lightness that comes with it.