On hiding our grief
I'm the first to say 'we need to talk about our grief and loss more openly' so why is my instinct is to turn & hide my tears, even in the safety of my own home. Why do I feel the need to hide my loss?
I wrote this in the summer of 2022 following a conversation with my eldest son, then a 19 year old, back home working working as a sports/rugby coach at a summer holiday camp for infant and primary school age children after completing his first year at university.
I miss my nan’ a little 5-year-old boy said. He’d run off to the far side of the rugby pitch in between activities. This isn’t unusual. A lot of the children wander off during the day for a variety of reasons. Charlie went over, crouched down in front of him and asked, ‘What’s up buddy?’
‘I miss my nan.’
This wasn’t what he expected to hear, and he moved from his crouching position to sit down next to him.
‘I’m sorry, that’s tough. Do you want to tell me about her?' They started to chat, and Charlie found out that this boy’s nan had died a few years ago, so not recently, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that this little boy missed his nan.
He slowly started talking and smiling as he shared some of his memories of his nan, and the conversation opened up, moving onto stories about the rest of his family. Charlie listened and wondered aloud if maybe the next time he felt sad because he was missing his nan, instead of thinking about her not being here now, maybe he could think about the times when she was, and to keep talking about her.
So many thoughts and emotions.
Fierce pride that my 19-year-old knew that the best thing he could to do was to sit by the boy’s side and listen to him. Invite him to tell him about his nan and his family. He didn’t rush him or pressure him to dry his tears and rejoin the group. He didn’t brush aside the grief. He gave it time and space.
And I just have this overwhelming vision of this grief, this loss being flushed out into the wide-open spaces of a rugby pitch. Bathed in sunlight, surrounded by big sky and moorland. This loss being freed from inside the little boy.
‘I miss my nan.’ Four short, simple words pack with emotion and meaning.
Grief is so often unseen. We hide it from view, a very private experience. Even as I write this, I'm wondering if I should. I mean it’s the summer holidays and such a sunny, hot day. Wall to wall blue sky. How can I write about something sad when it’s so sunny outside. Why would I choose to write about something that has the potential to upset me, or you.
The thing is grief has no time for the changing seasons. It doesn’t respect your to-do list or whatever you have going on any given day.
My tears arrive unexpectedly these days, like today. I start the day feeling ok. It’s a regular Wednesday and sure, I’m a bit slow to wake up but early work call done, I head out for a solo sunny walk on the moor. I take my time and walk over to Swastika Stone rather than my usual Rocky Valley and Cow & Calf.
One foot solidly placed in front of the other, stopping to tap and write on my phone, or drink some water. But back home, I feel the seeds of sadness and I genuinely don't know why. I ignore my work to-do list. Nothing urgent needing my attention, I pick up my book and wander into the kitchen to make scrambled eggs on toast. A James Taylor Spotify playlist fills the kitchen and when Neil Sedaka’s ‘Laughter in the rain’ comes on, I laugh at its cheesiness which quickly turns to tears and I remember the Neil Sedaka album mum had when I was younger. I feel daft, I mean, Neil Sedaka triggering tears.
I notice that I instinctively turn my back away from the kitchen door, shielding my face and signs of sadness from anyone who might walk in. I’m alone in the kitchen, and this is my house. Surely the safest of safe places for me to cry, but the instinct to hide the tears is there. Why? Why do I feel like I’m making a fuss?
I don’t have the answer, but if you ask me about grief, death and loss I’d be the first to say that we need to be more open. Share our vulnerability. To not be afraid to say, ‘I miss mum.’ or the tears, the sadness that comes. But here I am hiding it.
I wonder if some of it is feeling able to talk freely and openly about the person who has died. Maybe that's something we can all do, find a way to make space for us all to talk about the people we love who have died. Ask about them and give ourselves permission to simply say that we miss them.
I think there’s a lot we could learn from these two boys.