Laura Mangum-BroomHostI want to start today with a line from Louise Hay and David Kessler's book, You Can Heal Your Heart.
When I read them for the first time, they stopped me completely because I knew exactly what they meant, not as a concept, as a lived experience.
I've walked through five major losses in five years, the loss of my teenage son, breast cancer, a heart transplant, the death of my father, and a sudden divorce after 27 years of marriage.
But one of the deepest losses across all of those seasons was the loss of myself.
Not in a dramatic sense, the quiet kind, the slow kind, the kind that happens when you spend years being so full of someone else, their needs, their crises, their expectations, that you forget to remain full of your own.
When those relationships ended by death, by choice, or by circumstances that chose for me, I was left standing in the middle of my own life, genuinely unsure of who was still in there.
It's a sign you were present, that you cared fully, and it's an invitation to come back to yourself.
Some grief gets casseroles, sympathy cards, and public permission to fall apart.
Other grief gets silence, raised eyebrows, or a quiet expectation that you should be over it by now.
Your heart knows what it lost, and the validity of your grief is not determined by whether anyone else understood the relationship.
David Kessler, one of the world's leading grief experts, says it plainly, grief is grief.
I want to start today with a line from Louise Hay and David Kessler's book, You Can Heal Your Heart.
When I read them for the first time, they stopped me completely because I knew exactly what they meant, not as a concept, as a lived experience.
I've walked through five major losses in five years, the loss of my teenage son, breast cancer, a heart transplant, the death of my father, and a sudden divorce after 27 years of marriage.
But one of the deepest losses across all of those seasons was the loss of myself.
Not in a dramatic sense, the quiet kind, the slow kind, the kind that happens when you spend years being so full of someone else, their needs, their crises, their expectations, that you forget to remain full of your own.
When those relationships ended by death, by choice, or by circumstances that chose for me, I was left standing in the middle of my own life, genuinely unsure of who was still in there.
It's a sign you were present, that you cared fully, and it's an invitation to come back to yourself.
Some grief gets casseroles, sympathy cards, and public permission to fall apart.
Other grief gets silence, raised eyebrows, or a quiet expectation that you should be over it by now.
Your heart knows what it lost, and the validity of your grief is not determined by whether anyone else understood the relationship.
David Kessler, one of the world's leading grief experts, says it plainly, grief is grief.
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