Surfing the Wave

Today, another wave came.

It started in my chest. Then it moved into my throat. I felt pressure behind my eyes, as if my whole body was carrying the weight of grief.

Then I recognized it.

"I'm surfing again."

That was the only way I could describe it.

It wasn't just sadness. It wasn't panic. It was a wave — one of those massive California waves that rises higher and higher until you realize you can't stop it. You don't control it. You don't argue with it.

You ride it.

As the wave rose, I kept saying to myself, "These are my children."

Not just people.

My children.

I carried them inside my body. I gave birth to them. I watched them grow. No matter what has happened since, they will always be part of me.

That is what makes ambiguous grief so different.

People sometimes say, "Just move on."

A mother cannot simply move on from her children.

What I can do is survive the wave.

Today, while I was in the middle of it, I reminded myself of what I know to be true.

My children are safe.

They are alive.

I cannot know everything that is in their hearts, but I know the love I have for them is real, and I continue to hope for healing in whatever form the future may hold.

Then something happened.

The wave passed.

Not because I fixed anything.

Not because the estrangement disappeared.

The wave simply lost its strength.

I looked around and realized I was okay.

My chest relaxed.

The pressure eased.

And the first thing I thought was, "I could really use a cup of coffee."

That may sound funny, but it reminded me of something important.

Feelings — even overwhelming feelings — can change.

If you are living with ambiguous grief, especially the grief of being separated from a child, I want you to know this:

When the wave comes, you do not have to defeat it.

You only have to stay on your board until it passes.

Today, I surfed the wave.

And today, I made it safely back to shore.

— Briana F. Harden, CPS-MH, PBT