Grief is a Shapeshifter

When I welcome her companionship, I open myself to healing

“Cleansing” author’s oil painting

Before I experienced profound loss first-hand, I thought that grief had one face: that of intense sorrow. But I was wrong. Sorrow is only one of the many faces of grief.

Grief is a shape-shifter. Persistent, dynamic, and unpredictable.

It is seven months since we lost our son, and now that the initial shock has passed, I am experiencing grief in its many forms.

Personifying grief as it shows up in my life helps me.

If I ignore her, she can appear as a two-year-old toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Anger comes out sideways with an intensity that doesn’t match the circumstances.

If I am in a nostalgic mood, grief comes as a grandmother serving hot bergamot tea, reminiscing about the old days — leaving me with an intense longing for what was.

Sometimes, she is an office manager — the consummate problem-solver, turning over rock after rock looking for the solution to what could have been done differently to prevent the death of my loved one.

Often, grief is the ultimate teacher whose subject matter is mortality; her lessons not only include wonderings about what happens to my loved ones after this life, but also, lessons that bring my own mortality into clear view.

There are many other forms as well.

Slowly, I am coming to understand that all of the personifications come to help me. Though none of them are comfortable, each one intends to heal me.

When I am brave enough to meet grief as a companion, I find that, like an encounter with a friend, we have meaningful time together that has the potential to deepen my understanding of this experience and of myself.

An example

I am eating breakfast with my retired buds whom I affectionately call “the old guys.” We laugh a lot during these breakfasts and catch up with an organ recital each month. It is always nice to see them. But today, I am elsewhere.

We rotate the restaurants we frequent each month, and this one is a little rough around the edges. I notice the waitress is a woman in her late 70s, clearly working because she has to work, not because she enjoys it. Another woman at the register has no teeth and appears to be very arthritic. The waiter serving the table across from us is shaky and unsteady; it looks like he had a rough night.

I see several tables, each with single diners, nursing a cup of coffee and looking out the window, seeming, to me anyway, to be lonely.

The chatter at our table is pleasant, but I can’t seem to engage with it emotionally. I feel like I am about to burst into tears. What is it that’s coming up in me?

I try to notice what is coming up. I quickly finish half my breakfast, tell the guys I have to run, and excuse myself from the table. What I notice is that my stomach is in a knot, I feel confused, and my throat is tight.

I felt so verwhelmed that it took me 20 minutes until I could name what was happening inside me. That restaurant was one of the last places where my deceased son applied for a job. Though he had many talents, his wellness had deteriorated to such a level because of substance abuse disorder and mental health issues that this was one of the few opportunities he could find. He did not take that job. I could finally name what I was feeling. The nurturer in me was feeling compassion for how hard it was for him during his last days.

I could name other ways the sadness and compassion in me accumulated.

Compassion for those who have rough lives and continue to try. Compassion for those who have less. Compassion for those who are alone. Compassion for the suffering my son experienced.

As I cried, I realized that I needed to attend to what was coming up in me. My first instinct was to push away the uncomfortable feelings. After all, I had plenty to do today. Who has time for this?

Instead, I stayed with the feeling. I thought of my nurturing self and wondered what that part of me needed. I cried softly. Quietly. I recognized the hurt that part was feeling. I took a moment to affirm her for sharing it. I told her I would stay with her as long as she needed to be heard.

The sense of overwhelm dissipated to a point where I was comfortable again.

This practice, called NNN Notice, Name, Nurture, is one my counselor, Thaeda Franz is teaching me to use with hard feelings ( for more information, you can click on her link). NNN is giving me a way to be gentle with myself in a way that I can befriend what arises and allow the part of me that is “speaking” to be seen and heard. I am finding this method integrates mind, body, and soul in a way I have never experienced.

We are enculturated to avoid the harder emotions. Those of us who experience profound loss know that avoiding the pain of grief is impossible. The shapeshifter will break through.

There is nothing that dissolves grief; however, having tools to use makes facing it easier. Best to greet her with curiosity and openness, ready to learn what she has to teach.