The death of your parent creates a distinct type of grief. It shifts the ground beneath your feet. The world is changed. This particular loss might make you question your life and live differently.

Before I lost my mother, I knew people who had died. I had experienced loss on some level. But none of those deaths compared to what it felt like when my own mother died. I was gutted. Completely torn down. In the beginning, in the early days of raw grief, I would sink down sobbing, until my forehead pressed against the floor. I literally moved down, because I couldn’t move forward.

As a child I was taught to always assist others and put my own needs last. I said please and thank you, and I declined comfort items offered to me such as water or food or any altering of the environment around me. I never admitted to being too hot, too cold, thirsty, or hungry. I never complained that the lights were too bright or the sounds were too loud. If someone made me uncomfortable, I did my best to wait it out.

I was taught that it was not polite to inconvenience people or to impose. Oh, I’m fine thank you, was an oft repeated phrase of mine, no matter what needs were bubbling inside. I shoved them down and projected how fine I was, how ready and willing I was to absorb the burdens of others.

This is what it felt to be raised Catholic kid in the ’80s and ’90s. We had to go along with things. Have faith. Believe that all things were as they were meant to be. Let go and let God, as they said.

I stumbled through the years, did as I was told, and did what was expected of me. I got good grades and played sports. My older brother joined the army, and so I did, too. He chose a local college, and later I applied there, too. I did what my parents and teachers thought I should be doing, but all along nothing felt right. I was playing a role. I wondered when I would get to be myself, but that permission or encouragement never came. I didn’t fit. I questioned my life inwardly, and yet kept on pleasing others.

I swam with the current and never made waves. I got married, had two babies, and yet still looked around, trying to make eye contact with others to silently ask is this it? Am I doing this right? Because it didn’t feel right. Somewhere along the line I missed important information on how to live.

When my mom died suddenly, my grieving self, that woman with her forehead on the floor, tears running down and soaking her hair, just didn’t know what to do. I was frozen. There was nothing I should do. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t change it and there was no one to please. Playing the role of wife or mom or even functional human wasn’t possible.

Losing my mother shook my core. It wiped away the lingering fog that had been blocking my vision for so long. I put my head to the floor and closed my eyes, clinging to the earth and seeking a strong and reliable foundation. The problem was that people expected me to eventually get back up.

In grief I began to openly and more loudly question everything. Was this life supposed to make me happy? Was I truly happy? Was my mother happy? What is the point of all this?

And now that I am in my mid-forties, my friends are starting to get sick, discovering aggressive cancers, or starting chemo. Their homes have burned down. Several of their children have been diagnosed with long term or terminal illnesses. They are losing their jobs or quitting in exhausted agony. Life is beginning to feel like a slow trudge toward a sorrowful end.

I suppose I always imagined my mother living until she was very old, with wispy white hair. I would push her in her wheelchair, and though we’d move more slowly, we still would have a laugh together. One day, at quite an advanced age, she would pass away peacefully in her sleep. That was the way it was supposed to be.

That’s probably why I fell to the floor, feeling destroyed and cheated. Death cheated us and took her. Too soon. This was never in the plan. I had tried to do everything right in life, and yet she still died. Surely this inevitable pain came with a lesson to be learned. I stopped bobbing along with the current and clung to the shore.

I want my children to grow up questioning everything. Question the rules, kids, or make your own. Grief teaches us that it is time to identify what we want to do, not what we should do. Swim against the tide. Make big waves.

Grief reminds us that there will be a time when it’s all gone. What fills you up? Do you like your job? Can you see the beauty in the world? It’s right there. It’s time stop and to look for it.

Sometimes when I’m out walking I think about my feet touching the earth and imagine a path down into the ground, into the soil where I will inevitably end up someday. Will our children question it all? Or will they know that we lived and flared, burning brightly while we were here, like a warm candle flame on a dark night. Our lives can be beautiful and worth it, if we choose to make it happen that way, even in small ways.

I’ll tell you what this beauty is not, grieving friend. It is not Pinterest-worthy decor or fancy clothes. It is not hissing at your children to smile for a picture you want to post on Facebook so that everyone sees how awesome you are. It’s not even how many likes you have on Instagram. Certainly it’s not doom scrolling on your phone during dinner or that you’re a walking zombie because you stayed up until 2am getting slides ready for the staff meeting. You can let those things go and clear up some space in your heart.

Of course you may have obligations for family or work that must happen, but you also have an obligation to yourself and this one life you get. You get one life. This is it. It’s important that we set limits and boundaries, especially after the challenges and struggles that sprouted and spread during two years of pandemic life.

We cannot forget to hold onto and nurture the child inside us, who needs a hug, someone to squeeze their hand, or possibly even a nap. Draw a hard line around yourself and promise that you will carve out even just a little bit of happiness or peace. Question what gets to cross that line and have access to you. Promise the child-you that you’ll recharge your batteries and reserve space for something in this life that makes you truly smile, laugh, or feel good. Even if you start small. Just start. Today.

Sometimes I find beauty and peace when I breathe deeply outside, thankful that we can breathe now that the air isn’t thick with wildfire smoke. The hard grief of losing a parent teaches us a new way of seeing, and it’s one that makes me feel less alone. You and I may be small parts of the universe, grieving friend, but we are here and we get to choose some of what happens next.

Let’s get going together. Share your plans with me and others below in the comments.