My family experienced the earthquake of sudden loss when my brother Will died of an accidental overdose. His loss decimated an already shaky family foundation. We responded in dramatically different ways which eventually led to a permanent break for me from what I now refer to as “The House of Whiteley”. The lack of ability to communicate about our grief and pain has corrosive effects over time. What I have come to understand after two decades, a lot of therapy and grief support training is this: There is no “right” way to grieve. There is no superiority in the experience of loss. It is the co-opting of meaning making and the judgment of other people’s reactions to loss that creates distance, disappointment, and ultimately degrades our ability to stay connected in the wake of extreme loss. 

I wish I could turn back time and try to meet my mother where she was in her suffering over losing Will. Instead, once the period had elapsed where I thought she should be able to cope with the holidays and engage with her grandchildren, I grew increasingly resentful and bitter. I was angry that she refused to get professional help. At the time it seemed so hypocritical that she was a psychologist refusing to go to therapy. 

I shudder to admit that I felt she owed it to me to suck it up so she could show up for her living children and the families we created. In truth, she did a remarkable job of finding purpose in helping to raise her grandchildren. I just chose to focus on the Thanksgivings that she wouldn’t show up to because she was locked in a grief and trauma spiral that simply would not release her until it ran it’s course. 

Instead of our tragedy pulling us together as a family, we became increasingly petty and competitive with each other. The ensuing years brought blame and recrimination as well as vindictive wars over people and property. We even competed over who had the most right to be sad. It was as if experiencing the worst thing we had experienced gave us permission to let fly the worst versions of ourselves when it came to our nuclear family. 

To this day, I can cultivate the deepest empathy for people I meet in my work, friends, neighbors, and strangers on the street. But when it comes to the people I share blood with, I constantly fight the triggers that bring me back to that day 20 years ago and all the ways we have failed each other since. 

I grapple daily with the choices I made in the wake of losing Will. I also grieve the relationships that haven’t survived in my own attempts to heal and move forward. It’s been three years since Rita passed, and I now get what it means to lose a piece of yourself so big that letting yourself experience joy feels like a betrayal. I no longer tell people what their grief should and should not look like. I don’t insert my spiritual beliefs, or lack thereof into other people’s losses. I don’t flee from human suffering like I did before. I have created my own rituals for remembering my mother and my brother and I don’t expect others to join me. We just had the 3rd anniversary last week of being without her physical presence. I told my family in advance that I was going to be sad, and I asked them to be gentle with me. I told them to mark the day in whatever way was meaningful to them. I lit my “Rita” candle and sang her favorite songs with my son after sharing her favorite meal. 

If you are struggling with loss right now and want support, please reach out. If you have some strategies that have helped you from your own experiences, please share!