Last weekend I attended a retreat for grieving mothers. Yes, it was just as excruciating as it sounds but it was also beautiful and dare I say it - healing. When I first read about it, I admittedly had serious doubts that I would get anything out of it - but signing up felt like the responsible thing to do. So I did. Though, it only seems fair to note that I required the indulgence of a few adult beverages to muster the courage to do so. I did some research on the organizing group’s history and beliefs and felt reassured when I learned that alcohol and comfort food were not only permitted but provided. This was not going to be a clean-eating, sober, and prayerful weekend - and thank goodness for that. Look, each person’s grief journey is as unique as the person experiencing it and while I can understand how that would work for some, it’s just not for me. This retreat was pitched as a judgement-free zone with the sole purpose of grieving, connecting and taking steps toward healing but also acknowledging that a mother never fully heals from the loss of a child. Nor am I sure that she wants to.

So, I packed my bags, got COVID tested, kissed my boys goodbye, and drove an hour to a gorgeous house in the middle of nowhere New Jersey. Over the course of the next three days I would share Adelaide’s story and listen to heart wrenching stories of loss from 12 other mothers. We shared the trials of grieving with and without our partners, caring for our other children - the living sibling(s), our struggles to connect socially, and our various fears and anxieties. There were tears. So. Many. Tears. At any given point any one of us could start crying and no one asked what was wrong or if they were ok. Instead we were met with an ample supply of compassion, hugs and tissues. For those few days it felt normal to be this broken.

I feel the need to stress this point because grief can be one of the most isolating experiences there is. Sure, we self isolate out of choice but also grief is uncomfortable for those around us and inevitably some people begin to avoid us, as if grief is contagious. Or we learn to suppress our grief to appease those around us - but make no mistake, just because the grief isn’t visible it’s still there. Lingering below the surface waiting for a quiet moment alone to erupt. But among these women there was no hiding, no shame, no concern for someone else’s comfort level. We were all similarly broken together. I’m sure there is some bigger societal lesson in all of this about normalizing grief but I don’t have the advanced degrees necessary to tackle that one.

I digress…

With Adelaide’s one year anniversary behind us I’ve been struggling with how long I will feel disabled by my grief. I can be completely ok one moment and then the clouds roll in the next and the thought of leaving my room or the couch is unimaginable. I’ve written before about how my my desire to heal is affected by my fear of letting go of the pain. Clearly the pain will never go away completely but I worry that if the pain lessens then I will lose the little bit of Adelaide that I have left. I see Miguel and Jackson functioning almost normally and the guilt weighs heavy on my chest. Sure, they have their moments, but for the most part they have found their new normals. Now, rationally I know that you cannot compare grief or someone’s response to it. As Adelaide’s primary caregiver, as her mother, there is no way I can expect to have a similar response to either of them. Rational, shmational says my emotional self.

Meeting these women, who are amazing and strong - not because they chose to be but because they have to be. Women who continue to survive day after day with a loss only they will truly ever understand. Women who are broken by the loss of their child that they were ‘supposed’ to keep safe, but couldn’t. We are all so very broken but among them I feel normal broken. It is this revelation that has given me the courage to see that I am actually already healing.

If you want to learn more please check visit Hayden’s House of Healing.