What you don't know
Space available in our next grief writing for women series
I have one space available for my next grief writing series for women. We begin Thursday, April 11, and meet via Zoom from 6:00 to 7:30 PM PST for four consecutive weeks.
As a spring special, you can join for $132 instead of the regular $160.
Details and information are here. If you would like to register, please email me at dvarellasyoga@gmail.com.
I look forward to holding this healing space again and would love for you to join us!
The piece below was written on August 11, 2022, day two of a 30-day grief writing class, two months shy after the deaths of my father and beloved cat, Jax.
Since then, I have immersed myself in communities, practices, podcasts, books, articles, poetry, and courses that see grief through a sacred and spiritual lens and honor the emotional body and the wounds we carry rather than burying or denying the pain and the consequences that can come from doing so.
If you are anything like me and others who have shared their experience with grief, there are times when you feel alone.
Though our losses differ, the emotions and experiences of a significant loss can have similar destabilizing and disorienting states of being.
I am continually inspired to bridge my grief and healing through writing, co-creating space and community for others to write and share their stories, and understanding how heartbreak is a sincere form of connection and compassion.
I am no longer in the weeds of deep grief for my father and Jax, but I believe it necessary to share the voice of the woman then because parts of her are alive now as I navigate a new season of loss.
We live in a culture that is grief-phobic and not well-versed in the language of loss, yet it is something we will all go through. I am still learning to speak and hold space for grief. With each loss, I learn to be generous with my heart and remember what I forget.
I have come to understand that there is no right or wrong way to grieve, and I am practicing questioning my conditioning and those who tell me otherwise through a curious lens.
No one knows the intimate truths of your life experiences more than you do. Life is a unique and universal journey; we will learn to move through it by honoring our pace and trusting our process.
It is not easy to be with or acknowledge our pain or another's. Being vulnerable and uncomfortable takes practice, skill, capacity, curiosity, and willingness.
What you don't know is sometimes I cry multiple times a day. Sometimes, I go days with a drought of dry eyes. Sometimes, I cry warm, gentle tears. Sometimes, I scream from the pit of my pelvis.
What you don't know is each day feels like an effort to get out of bed. I reach for my phone first thing, pushing the day away, hoping for a discreet distraction.
What you don't know is that some mornings, I create a quiet space in devotion to what is meaningful, supportive, and caring, honoring my loss, my love, my grief, my body, my mind, and my spirit.
What you don't know is the pain I carry. The tears I contain in public, in the presence of another, or the tears that start to escape at the grocery store when a wave of sadness comes out of nowhere, and I do not have the strength to hold them back.
What you don't know is that when you ask how I am doing, I might say OK because I do not have the energy to tell you how I actually am, how I wonder if you would listen and hold space or offer your opinion or advice on how I should be doing or feeling.
What you don't know is that I am OK, and sometimes I am not, and that is OK too.
What you don't know is that losing something so precious can make your world feel purposeless, and you quickly realize you don't have time for BS.
What you don't know is how much of an impression it is when you check in, when you send a brief text, a card, or drop off flowers or food; the smallest, simplest gestures can brighten a mood.
What you don't know is sometimes it looks like turning away from the pain and gauging your grief through measuring and testing in doses that do not overwhelm you.
What you don't know is that you will learn and relearn how to care for yourself during your loss and honor the magnitude and collection of feelings.
What you don't know is that the amount you can show up for your broken heart will expand your capacity to be with your grief and your communities.
What you don't know is that you will experience moments of joy, creativity, or inspiration. Celebrate and soak in the sensations. Let them open you to the beauty and ease of the present moment.
What you don't know, though perhaps well intended, is that the phrases "everything happens for a reason" or "be grateful for their lives" are not helpful.
What you don't know is that bringing them up in conversation will not inconvenience me. Ask me what I love about them.
What you don't know is how sacred and precious life is until a life you adored and treasured is gone. How sudden it could be the last time you hold, see, or speak to someone you love.
What you don't know is the time you take for granted. Savor each moment, breath, glance, touch, conversation, and cuddle. Treat each interaction as if it were your first and last.
What you don't know is I am stronger than I used to be but more tender than ever.
What you don't know about grief is that it is a place of radical unknowing and learning how to rest there.
Writing Prompts and Reflection
I am curious to hear from you. What is your experience with grief? What practices have supported you?
Jump-off lines to ignite your writing:
What you don’t know about _____
Ask me what I love about them
Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Begin with one or more of the prompts. Use them as a starting point, repeat them throughout your writing.
Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page.
“What you don't know is I am stronger than I used to be but more tender than ever.”
This was beautiful in all its layers, Dina. Thank you for being a profound example of this truth: that there is strength in the tenderness and in the allowing space for the raw vulnerability of grief, especially in a world that is so resistant to feeling so deeply.