loss

Imagine a small, dark room. Inside, there are artifacts of grief, nostalgic music and bird cutouts, uncomfortable places to sit, and a wall to hang notes for your loved ones. Outside, in the garden, framed quotes and statistics about grief are hung on plants and posts. Through these frames, I learn how wide grief goes. How it can engulf everyone, even if we have not lost someone close to death. The quotes talk about moving countries, lost career dreams, breakups, divorces, fading friendships, and past versions of ourselves as grief.

My understanding of grief is thereby expanded at the “traveling” Grief Museum at Evergreen Brickworks Park in Toronto a few years back, when I stumbled upon the exhibit after meeting my mentor for lunch. I sat in the dark next to a Russian-looking older gentleman, who may or may not have lost his spouse to old age or his close friends to disease, and watched the flying birds projected on the wall. I didn’t cry, although I came close.

I wrote two notes and placed them on the wall: one for my grandma, who passed a few years back, and the other for my last ex, who blocked me. To my grandma, “I don’t regret much in life. But I regret not spending enough time with you!” To my ex, “For all the times we could have had, but won’t.”

On my way back, I remembered all the other notes I could have left. I could have written a note to my ex-husband because I haven’t yet grieved the ending of our 15-year relationship. I could have written to one of my past best friends, who succumbed to marriage, family, and immigration. I could have mourned for my past careers and employers, who made travel and immigration possible, or my lost childhood as a firstborn daughter, or the first dog of my childhood home, Ranger, who knew I was scared of dogs and protected me from neighbourhood pariah dogs.

As we can see, there is much to mourn and grieve. There is much to come to terms with. As an executive coach, I often tell clients that unfelt and unprocessed emotions stay on in our bodies, leading to maladies upon amalgamation. This is my attempt to follow my own advice.

Experts say it takes 66 days to form a habit. To honor my previous overachieving self (another thing to grieve), I promise to grieve for 100 days, without skipping more than one day in a row. Some days, it might just be a sentence or a poem. Other days, a mega blog post. Some will be lightly edited, others dropped raw and real. We shall see how this goes 🙂

I don’t expect anyone to see this or read this. Actually, that makes it easier to write. I always tell myself no one is going to read my stuff before I publish online. These 100 #griefdiary posts are for me and myself only. This is also a way to bring myself back to my writing, or my writing back to me. Every evening, candle lit, tummy satiated, I will sit down to grieve what I haven’t. Or what I couldn’t at that time because taking the time to process grief is somewhat of a luxury and a nod to the capacity I’ve fought hard to gain