When your parent dies, in the beginning, grief is what you do. It’s expected. You might sit with intense grief, possibly surrounded by family and friends, planning for the burial and events to celebrate and remember your mom or dad’s life. You might have to focus on the logistics of selling their house or closing their accounts. Generally, in those early days, the waves of grief surge regularly, and you are not surprised when they crash over you.

However, as the days progressed and time passed after my mother died, when my family and friends receded back into the rhythm of their everyday lives, it was ridiculous and awful the way grief jumped out and tackled me in unexpected places. When she died my kids were ages seven and nine, and they still needed me. They needed meals, clean clothes, and a mother who wasn’t crying all day. I tried to grieve in tiny, spare moments when I was alone, but still, grief found me in unexpected places, whether I was ready or not. Grief is like water. It finds a way in.

I cried in a grocery store next to the display of Leanin’ Tree greeting cards. Those beautiful, whimsical cards full of fairies, flowers, and swirls of glittering color. My mom loved them and sent them for my birthday or randomly just to say she loved me, was proud of me, or as a thank you for gifts I sent her. She loved the outer envelopes that were printed with the moon and stars or mandalas. I think she wanted to stuff as much joy into her card as possible, since we lived a few thousand miles apart. I could easily spy her colorful, happy greeting inside my mailbox full of boring, white envelopes, and so I felt her love right away. Not a moment wasted.

And so inside that grocery store, next to the display of rainbow unicorn cards, I crumpled. At first I was fine, shopping like a normal person, and then I took one step too close to that display. It was as if I was pulled into another dimension, through an invisible grief membrane that I felt slide like a chill all over my skin, into a place that was powerful, weighty, and not about to let me go.

For a split second I saw myself from the outside, the woman who must be audibly sighing, not bothering to wipe the tears away, and repeatedly blowing her nose. I don’t often see people openly crying with grief in public places. No one approached me, and I was thankful for that. For me when this grief popped up unexpectedly, the only thing to do was let it in, to sit with it and feel it. Maybe I’m old enough to not feel self conscious anymore, or maybe in grief you just don’t care what other people think.

I stood there as long as I needed, as long as it took, examining the covers of the greeting cards, considering their patterned envelopes, and imagining which one she would have selected. If I squinted hard and imagined, it was almost like she was on the other side of the rotating display, just out of sight, looking at the cards I had turned past. But she wasn’t, and I knew it, and so I cried more. I wanted to buy every single card and mail them to my mom, who would be home to receive a hundred flowery envelopes. Partly I wanted to push over the whole circular display and watch it crash to the ground. I knew she wasn’t home. She died. I couldn’t send her a card ever again. My messages would never arrive, no matter how badly I wanted them to.

So many little, ordinary things can trigger a wave of grief and sadness. I hated it and wondered when it would be over, when I could walk through the world without tripping over her brand of coffee, a song on the radio, a car that looked exactly like hers, or her favorite sandwich on a restaurant menu. There are so many small moments when I think of her. My mother was so completely woven into the fabric of my everyday life, and those threads remain for me.

In the beginning these unexpected passages from the regular, living world through the grief membrane and back again were frequent, jarring, and emotionally draining. There was raw pain and so many tears, as if I repeatedly turned corners and walked into walls that weren’t there a moment before. It still happens this way now, but not quite as often. At almost three years past her death, I’m not emotionally blindsided as often, but it does still happen. What is different now is that I have learned how to sense that the grief membrane is approaching. It still hurts. It’s still raw, but I have gained a split second notice that it’s coming, enough so that I can brace myself and take a deep breath sometimes.

Now in grief trigger situations that are familiar, like when the opening notes of a song she loved begin to play, I am a bit better prepared. I want to remain in the moment with her, thinking of her, existing in that space and using that time to almost visit with her, check in with her, and remember her. These are moments I welcome now, even though they hurt, even though I still cry, because these are our memories together. If this is all I have, I am going to hold onto it with all of my heart.

When has unexpected grief popped up in your life? Please leave me a comment below. I’d love to hear from you.