Let's Take a Big Grief Breath

This is your sign to take a big grief breath before the holidays.

This time of year, I find myself shifting in ways I don’t always identify until it’s too late - until I snap at a friend over an innocent question or burst into tears over a work email I just don’t want to answer. Each afternoon brings a strong urge to nap, even though I slept 9 hours the night before. I don’t feel the weight on my shoulders until it’s brought me to my knees.

It took finding a very good therapist to help me identify this as anticipatory grief, a shutting down of the body to prepare for the hard emotions that are sure to come up at the holidays. It’s preparing for the empty seat at the table or the missing signature dish or not having someone tall enough to put the star on the top of the tree. It’s wondering if people will talk about those who are gone - and not knowing if it would be worse if they did or they didn’t.

I sometimes find that the anticipation of the day itself is the worst part. It’s like micro-dosing grief for days, letting it leak into every part of your life, not knowing if one big final wave will come to knock you out when the holiday finally arrives or if it’ll just skim your legs gently.

This year will be the third Thanksgiving without my sister Eleanor. And so many other losses weigh heavy on my heart: my Mimi, my cousins’ cousins, my friends’ parents, and so many more.

In past years, I’ve tried different things to prepare for the holiday season. I’ve flat out denied my grief, filling up my calendar in hopes I can outrun the wave. I’ve leaned into the sorrow of it all, going into what I call “low-power mode” and giving myself permission to cancel plans and lay in bed. I’m not sure there’s ever a right answer except to listen to your body and honor what it needs in the moment.

This year, my body is asking me to remember. To reminisce, with all the laughter and tears that come with it. Maybe it’s because my phone has been constantly out of storage, and I find myself having to sort through old photos to clear up space for new ones often.

On my most recent purge, I found this video from Thanksgiving 2020. In it, my parents, Eleanor, our dog Sophie and I sit in the tiny tiny downstairs bathroom of our house during a tornado warning. You can hear my mom arguing with Spencer to get inside wherever he is. Our legs are cramped as we all try to fit with Sophie sprawled in the middle. We’ve brought our favorite blankets because I’m sure we migrated straight from the living room couch to the bathroom when the warning began.

I’ve watched this video dozens of time because Eleanor’s half-wink at the beginning is so classic and brought me so much joy. But watching it this week, I noticed for the first time that in the background, Eleanor asks, “Do you want to put the hat on the dog?” I must’ve said yes because the next photo in my camera roll brings her vision to life.

I remember thinking this was the funniest situation we could possibly be in, and I can almost hear her cackling laugh and feel her long legs pressed up against mine on the floor of the bathroom.

Remembering can be so painful. This memory is just another thing I want to share with her, to share the photo and laugh until we cry together, as we so often did.

This year, I’m dealing with holiday anticipatory grief by holding its hand. By allowing it to exist within me and beside me. By sharing the stories that are bringing me joy (or sadness) with the people I love. And with all of you, by writing them down.

Here are a few more of my favorite Eleanor memories from our last Thanksgiving together:

Realizing that we had the exact same length of hair while sitting at Mimi’s kitchen table. This was a little over a month before she came out to our family as transgender, and my friend Erin once wondered aloud if this moment might’ve meant something bigger to her - to see her womanhood reflected in our similarities. I really hope so.

Eleanor serving me a specialty Thanksgiving cocktail of Ranch Water and cranberry juice. I remember both of us curling up on the couch to watch the Masked Singer for hours after this and getting way too invested in the outcome. I can’t remember anything else about the show, but I’ll never forget the feeling of being together and tuning out the rest of the world.

My little cousin Mia has a birthday around Thanksgiving, and we celebrated with cake and birthday hats for all. My camera roll is full of goofy pictures of the whole family as we sat around drinking wine, and Eleanor and I sat in the corner and jousted with our hats.

Just telling these stories, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard to be more accurate), helps to lift some of the heaviness in my chest today.

This is how I’m taking a big grief breath today. I hope you find a way to take one for yourself if you need it.

And I would always love to hear your memories (of Eleanor or of any of your loved ones). They live on through the stories we tell and the way we remember them.

Happy Thanksgiving.