Shared Grief

Just this past Sunday, I woke up with a heavy feeling in my heart, as if a huge rock was pressing against my chest. I stayed inside my room most of the day, as I did not want to share my grief with my family. I felt too ashamed, defeated and worthless (and very dramatic, obviously), and I didn't want my parents to worry about me too much.

I had to come out some time, though, and when my dad told me to get ready for mass, I hid my face behind my hair (which now falls down below my shoulders! Hurrah!) and made a quick run for the bathroom. Before I could "escape," though, he told me to go give my mom a hug, to comfort her. Her best friend died of a heart attack earlier that day.

When I went to her, I could see immediately that her heart was broken, and so I gave her a big hug and broke down immediately when she started crying. Maybe it was because it was an excuse to cry in front of her; maybe it was because I was heartbroken too; or maybe it was because we both shared the same grief.

We both lost a part of us that day: a dear friend, a part of our hearts, a memory, the future that could-be, a love, a part of our lives that can never be taken back.

When I cried my heart out to her, she didn't know what was hurting me; she just let me cry with her, knowing that letting out the tears will make us feel better, whatever it is that may cause us pain. I guess, in some way, she felt that my sobs were more than just empathic ones. I guess moms really have an intuition when it comes to their children. And so, I felt that when she hugged me back, it was more than just a hug of gratitude: she was grieving for my loss too.

* * * *

I think it's still too early to tell if I'm already okay. The heavy feeling is still in my chest, as if my heart has been replaced by an iron fist. But what I've learned from all of this is that, although I inherited my dad's looks and his disposition, I inherited my mom's trusting heart. Like her, I have a hopeful heart, a forgiving heart. I may have wanted to rip it out a few days back, berating myself for being too trusting. But now, I accept that it is a gift, and it is who I am.

It is a blessing, having a hopeful heart. It means that although it is capable of feeling grief, pain and sadness, it is also resilient enough to hope again, to have faith in the things that matter. And isn't that what feeds the heart? Isn't that what makes everything okay again?

A little bit of hope.

A little bit of faith.