Welcome to 2023. A new year, another day, one more moment further into the future. When you’re grieving, time becomes distorted. I call this the grief time vortex. A day can feel like an eternity, a year can feel like an instant, and the last time you saw them feels equal parts forever ago and a second ago all at once. We experience this anyway in life, but with grief, it’s amplified. After my dad died, I remember the new year feeling like a pull, another factor creating distance between us. But when my brother died, New Year’s Day brought relief. I felt relief because I never expected just how hard New Year’s Eve would be. We expect to feel the weight of our grief on anniversaries, birthdays, even random moments when we hear a song or smell a smell that triggers a memory of our loved ones. But that first New Year’s Eve hit me like a ton of bricks. I was snuggling with my kids, my husband, and my mom on the couch and instantly was transported in time to memories of my brother and I watching the ball drop as kids, or rather to him waking me up before the ball dropped because inevitably I would fall asleep on the couch after hours of laughter and sibling silliness. I was reminded of our young adult years going to NYE shows like Phish at Big Cypress or String Cheese in San Francisco. I remembered celebrating multiple New Year’s Eves with my big brother and my boyfriend, who is now my husband, and watching their friendship form. Then as adults, in the years when we were not together, I would get the call at 12:02, my big brother calling to wish me a happy new year and tell me how much he loved me. That first New Year’s Eve without him and without the call at 12:02, I couldn’t wait for the ball to drop and my kids to hurry off to bed so I could go to sleep and make that night end. The memories were sweet ones, but when grief is so new, the sting is sharper than the sweetness, and I couldn’t find solace. So when I woke up the next morning on a new day, in a new year, I felt relief that the extra pain of the night before was now back to my typical level of grief, back to my mix of missing and remembering, bittersweet sadness but love that makes me smile, this return to dark grief mixed with restorative grief brought a sense of relief. Relief is a common emotion in grief. The problem is that often when we feel it, we try to make ourselves feel bad for feeling it. Then we are dealing with guilt rather than just allowing our hearts to lead. When your moments of relief come, don’t judge them, don’t make yourself feel bad for feeling them. Recognize that in the greatest depths of pain from missing someone you love, it’s okay to have moments where you feel a sense of calm. For you, it may not come with the change of year, I know that would not have resonated for me with losing my dad, but as we begin this new year, watch for the moments when relief settles in and do your best not to push it away. I often recommend the “best friend test”. If a friend came to you and said, I am so relieved that I have a moment of ease right now, would you reply back to them with words of encouragement and comfort? Or something more abrasive and aggressive about how dare they feel relief when they should be feeling horrible all the time. We tend to be nicer to our friends than to ourselves. So my new year’s wish for anyone reading this is to try to be more kind and gentle to yourself in your grief. Notice the relief, allow it to be there for as long as it likes, knowing it doesn’t change how much you miss or love them. And if you need someone to keep you accountable for allowing yourself the balance of being in the darker spots of grief combined with honoring the lighter moments, please reach out for support from family, friends, or to us here at GriefTREE.
Wishing you a peaceful New Year –
Lisa Zucker, MSW, LCSW, Certified Thanatologist
Sister to Andy and Daughter to Joel, both of blessed memory
