Crying because my life, those I love and the greater community depends on it

Have you ever felt something end, change or shift, and found yourself trying to think your way through it rather than grieve it?

I’ve been diving into grief of late, thanks in part to The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller. It was recommended to me by intimacy coach Nats Gaglione of Nats Alchemy Coaching during our work together, and it has landed beautifully alongside the essence of Jennifer Breheny Wallace’s Mattering and a trauma-informed approach.

In my sessions with Nats, what came up strongly was the need to grieve situations, and in particular friendships, that no longer fitted or worked.

It felt like that itch I just couldn’t scratch. I found myself going around in circles trying to figure out what happened, while also not wanting to know, wanting to leave it alone, and simultaneously feeling a deep sense of relief, peace and faith that everything was ok - exactly as it was meant to be.

This is what I love so much about a trauma-informed approach.

It offers an incredible framework for allowing myself and others to feel what we feel, to take responsibility for ourselves, and to do what it takes to find our way back to our own sense of safety.

Safety looks different for each person

For me, this season of learning has helped me get clearer about what safety means in my relationships, my body and my life.

A big part of the growth curve around one particular relationship breakdown (and reflecting on others that had gone down a similar path) was the realisation that my own personal sense of safety hadn’t been factored in.

In countless friendships and relationships, a common denominator was not feeling safe in the dynamic.

And I’m talking about something subtle here. Not physical abuse. Not behaviour that is obviously cutting me down.

I’m talking about things like not having the space I need to properly express myself. Minimising myself and my needs in order not to create a fuss. Being spoken over. Feeling the need to perform “fine” when something inside me is saying, “Actually, no.”

This unease can be present in longstanding and close connections. You know when something’s not quite right.

Hell, at times it even presents itself in the relationship I have with myself and with my son; and, well, I can’t exactly break up with those guys.

So some connections and friendships meet conflict and are healed through repair. Some end with a blow. Some just fizzle out.  And it’s all ok.  It’s part of being human.

Living with that, and making sense of what happened, is some of the big work of this human experience called life

And here's a truth

On countless occasions I’ve probably been the person doing or saying something that has thrown someone else into a state of not feeling safe with me and my truth.

Ooft.

That has been quite something to admit and sit with this past year.

When you operate from a space of well-intentioned words and actions, but they land in a totally different way with the person receiving them, that can be hard to hold.

And accepting that they’re allowed to feel how they feel? That has been a lesson in itself.

I suspect some of this has everything to do with living with undiagnosed neurodiversity (something I also hold space for as a coach) and with becoming less and less willing to sacrifice my own wellbeing.

But here’s the interesting part: no one has ever used the language of “feeling unsafe” with me in relation to what I’ve said or how I’ve made them feel.  That word/those words say so much, they offer a framework for what we’re dealing with.  They offer tenderness, compassion and an ‘it’s ok, this is hard and I want to be brave enough to trust you with my feelings’.

So it has been fecking confusing. Mind-bending, actually.

Over the years, it has eaten up more of my ruminating brain cells than I dare to recall.

I’m a truth-telling, foot-in-mouth, “I have to say what I’m thinking” kind of person. And the older, more menopausal, more sure of myself and more neurodiverse - undiagnosed, but hello! - I get, the less willing I am to hold back.

I’ve learned that it’s ok for a friendship, relationship or longstanding situation to come to an end

There can be so much beauty in allowing that. Sometimes two people, or a person and a situation, just no longer mix well. The season ends. And that’s ok.

What’s beautiful is that irrespective of the climate that exists between two people, love can still be poured into what lives between us.  Love for what was. Love for what was learned. Love for the version of ourselves who tried so hard to make it work.  Love for where it’s brought us to - here - now. 

I’m emphatic with people from the outset: “Please be honest with me. If something needs to be said, please say it, and I’ll do the same. There is nothing we cannot surmount through an honest conversation.” I am ALWAYS up for an honest conversation.  My favourite way to say something difficult that I want to speak about is ‘it’s really awkward/difficult for me to say this but I need to’, something shifts, something softens on both sides - it’s somehow easier to speak up or if someone says that to me - to lovingly listen.

Maybe we agree to disagree, and that’s entirely fine. So long as we each know where we stand, there’s something beautifully contained about that.

Living a truthful existence is such a big deal for me. And living truthfully also involves collecting a pile of things that, at some point, will need to be grieved.

Because sometimes it feels too hard to have the honest conversation. Sometimes the energy required simply isn’t in the tank.

I’ve always done my best to get to the guts of a situation; but that isn’t always possible, and this is something I’ve had to practise being ok with.

The beautiful part for me is that I get to let go, with love, of friendships and connections that no longer work. I don’t have to make myself wrong for doing so. That old saying about people coming into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime? Yes. That.

And something that saved the day for me a couple of years back was this: “I don’t need you to understand me.” (I thought I’d written a blog post about it, but perhaps it’s still scribbled on a piece of paper somewhere, waiting to become one.)

I’ve wasted so much time and energy trying to be understood. I’ve questioned myself. I’ve felt like an awful person, often with no real idea what I had actually done.

Thankfully, I’ve started to let myself off the hook.

Instead, I prioritise finding my way back to my own sense of safety. Then I direct unconditional love into those spaces: the emptiness left behind, the not knowing, the angst, the wishing the other well, the love for what was, and the letting go.  Putting on my own oxygen mask first, establishing safety within myself as my highest priority - which is ultimately an act of love for all.

This is why I found trauma-informed training so profound.

There was no option but to weave it into my coaching work. Something had been missing, and this was the piece.

Add in the “mattering” bit, and now this recent addition of letting go through grief, something important has clicked into place. 

You know when you hear about something and don’t quite feel the urgency or inclination to do anything about it? That happened with The Wild Edge of Sorrow. I bought the paperback, it sat in my bedroom for months, and then I found myself in a loop with an unresolved situation from my past.

That was when the nudge to start the book appeared. And oh my goodness. It is utterly delicious. Containing, textured and tender. It offers a loving space to land with all that lives in and around me, and it has revealed that making space for grief isn’t optional. It is essential.

I’m well aware that grief lives in the fascia of my body. There are moments from my past, and already moments in today, that I need to excavate and release.

The work of grieving is being lovingly taught to me through this book, and through noticing those in-between moments in life where there is not only stuff to dig up, but stuff to feel and grieve. 

Also in the ways I witness life unfolding around me and all the ways people hold in something that deserves ‘an out’. 

This feels both annoying and tantalising. Annoying because I have to remember to find the time in my day to reflect on this stuff, and yes, even two minutes counts.  And tantalising because when I actually go there, the shift, the feeling of tenderness that unfolds is truly tender loving.

The trick for me seems to be setting out into a new day full of intention.

Earlier this week, I shared with my son in the car on the way to school: “I’m learning about the importance of crying as a way of staying ok.”

His response? “Oh no, what now?”

Funny. Also interesting. In our society, even the idea of crying is uncomfortable for many. Either that or he was probably thinking out loud: “What’s Mum up to this time?”

I love bringing my new revelations and lessons into our relationship. It feels important. Whether he seems engaged, curious or completely over it, I know he ponders these musings in his own way and time. I always say to him: “Learn this stuff now and adulthood could be smoother.”

He takes it on, and shares insights in his own way and time (although he’d never admit it).

And so, carving out space to grieve doesn’t actually need to involve going too deep. It gets to be more simple than that.

Here’s the almost funny part: I need to plan for it in order for it to happen. Because of how my brain works and how task-focused I am, I need a plan.

A plan to transition from whatever I was doing into the “let’s meet grief” zone.

It could be selecting a specific song to listen to on the way to school pickup. Alexandra Blakely belts out delicious grief songs; it could be sitting with a photo of my son and reflecting on challenging times. It could be sending a voice message to a friend about something really difficult, like I did recently via a 21-minute WhatsApp message to a feels-emotionally-safe pal in Australia.  Saying outloud how I feel, trusting they will find the time to hear whatever it is I want to share at my own pace and tone, without being interrupted - knowing someone will hear all of what I’m saying, that I’m not alone with my feelings and that how i’m feeling matters is like therapy - and it’s free!.  Highly recommend this - find that space, give it and use it. 

Creating space and taking action to allow the emotions is transformational. It totally shifts my energy everytime (I simply need to remember to do it!). 

It could be sitting with a physical discomfort I’m having, and this has been a big part of my life these past 12 months - and properly paying attention to it for any amount of time. Even thinking about that stirs up some big feelings in me. It doesn’t, and won’t, take much to get me going.

The knowledge of what awaits me on the other side of the outpouring is where the tantalising bit kicks in.

I believe strongly that grief will be a pathway through the chronic pain I’ve been dealing with these past 12-plus months. When I allow myself to lovingly acknowledge and grieve for the discomfort in my groin, or for my left and now right ring fingers and how it hurts to bend them, something softens. (There are other sore bits too, but those are examples.)

It is important to me to create a safe space for others dealing with chronic pain and physical discomfort, and this is something I offer through my [coaching for chronic pain].

Grief also deserves attention in light of the high highs and low lows of menopause. As a single parent raising a son entering his heightened hormonal phase, it can sometimes feel as though our hormones are heading in completely different directions.

Master 11 asks his menopausal mum, 50, for a one-on-one basketball session most evenings when she has already overspent the day’s energy.

There is grief there. Grief at no longer having the energy to show up in the way he would like me to and that I wish I could. Grief at the amount of energy it takes to explain myself to him. Grief at the changing shape of my body, my capacity and my season of life.

This is also part of why I offer [coaching for menopause].

There are so many tears needing to be turned loose around the huge work of parenting a sensitive child as a sensitive person myself. Ooft. Give me a day a week until the end of time to work through that gear.

It has been, and still gets, really intense over here. The sheer build-up of things can send me into a tipping point if I’m not careful. I am forever figuring out ways, learning, reading, listening and doing my utmost to understand what is happening at each age and stage for both of us.

Managing the mass of it all amidst life is sometimes more than I can handle. Quite frankly, it feels entirely wrong to be doing this work on my own. It is no wonder I blow.

Holding space for this, and sharing what I have learned, feeds into the coaching support I offer for parents of sensitive children, and for children and their families through my intimate [Shine programme].

Time to cry

I am ready to cry for the times when, as a child, I felt afraid someone would find me out for something that wasn’t even my fault. 

I am ready to cry for the miscommunications that took place with someone special and led to the end of our relationship.

I am ready to cry for the times I sat on the stairs or the floor around our shoes at my wits’ end with my son, who was refusing something important.

I am ready to cry because of the injustice of something that never should have happened.

I am ready to cry because it isn’t right that our elderly are sometimes treated as lower-class citizens.

I am ready to cry because life is a lot, for all of us.

I am ready to cry because the love I have for my son is so deep, and in the space of a day I can oscillate between full-blown rage, deep tenderness and soul shaking unconditional love.

I am ready to cry because I lost a really dear friend too soon.

And now the tears have come.

I am ready to cry for all those sleepless nights as an exhausted mum of a new baby, a long way from home and wondering how on earth she was going to get through the morning.

I am ready to cry because yesterday I had two free hours, and I spent one of them in bed agonising over what I could be getting on with. The tears are for not being able to fully surrender to that time.

I am ready to cry because I wanted to oil the pre-loved, sanded garden furniture yesterday; but the rain came, and I ran out of time because I was in bed.

I am ready to cry for the adult who has a child inside them who just can’t get it right with their parent, no matter how hard they try.

I am ready to cry for the parent who is suffering in their own way, while so much tension remains entwined.

I am ready to cry because as I mature I can relate better to what my own mother must have gone through in raising me and 3 brothers and how she had needs that she never knew needed met. 

I am ready to cry because I’ve entered a new phase of my life, and I need to grieve the parts of myself that have moved on in order to make space for this version of me.

I am ready to cry because my brother and his family, who live in Australia, visited us in Burntisland this month, and my heart nearly exploded.

We GET TO GRIEVE

Grieve that our bodies feel different.

That our memories don’t work the way they used to.

That we have less energy than we did five years ago, or five days ago.

That our relationship with our mother just isn’t great.

That the high-conflict co-parenting arrangement takes more from us than anyone sees.

That life looks different from how we imagined.

There is so much worth grieving about.

What I’m realising is that grief doesn’t only need space when we lose someone or something.

It doesn’t only need space when we fall over and hurt ourselves, physically or metaphorically.

Grief needs to be invited in as a core part of being human.

I’ve rebranded grief a little.

It goes a little something like this:

Grief is what needs to be expressed when a small part of ourselves goes unnoticed, misunderstood, not enough, frustrated, tired, exhausted, afraid, broken-hearted, misheard, not believed or overwhelmed.

Grief doesn’t need to involve a big dramatic cry requiring empathy and sympathy from the masses - quite the opposite, it seems.

Grief simply needs a window where it can be tenderly acknowledged, allowed and believed, especially by ourselves, a knowing loving nod, because it matters. And in our busy lives, making that space a priority is often the challenging part.

I know that, as a collective, we are moving in this direction. Slowly, beautifully, awkwardly, tenderly. Towards more truth. Towards more room for what hurts. Towards more willingness to let our bodies, hearts and relationships tell us what they need.

This is part of the work I hold space for in coaching: the truth beneath the coping, the grief beneath the tension, the mattering beneath the pain.

Whether you are navigating chronic pain, menopause, parenting a sensitive child, relationship shifts, neurodiversity, or simply the sheer bigness of life, there is room for all of you here.

Grief isn’t bad or sad.

It is entirely necessary to live well.

If this has stirred something in you, and you want support to gently explore what your body, relationships or life are asking you to grieve, you can learn more about my coaching work here:

[Coaching for Chronic Pain][Coaching for Menopause][Shine programme for sensitive children and their families][Contact me / Book a coaching call / learn more]

You deserve to let your grief flow.

Because it matters.

With you in it, always.

Bron xx

A gentle invitation for you, the reader

If something in you is longing for softness, connection, movement or simply a space to exhale… you are warmly invited to join us. There is no pressure to perform, no expectation to be anything other than yourself. Just come as you are and know that that's enough.

Please do not hesitate to reach out to me by responding to this email if you have any questions.

With love and thank you for your time and attention, always. Bron xx

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