Acceptance: What Happened, Really Happened
(or if it’s ongoing, what is happening is really happening)
I deliberately left the F word out of the title of this page (forgiveness) because it’s misunderstood. Some people think that forgiveness means to say it was okay that the person did whatever they did. That isn’t actually what real forgiveness is, not forgiveness for the sake of healing. Forgiveness is acceptance that what happened is in the past and can’t be changed. That acceptance is what puts things to rest so you can focus on life in the present moment.
On an intellectual level, it can seem pretty easy to ‘accept’ that what happened, happened. But if you find yourself wondering, “But what if I had done X?” or “What if they had done Y?” then your brain is demonstrating that you haven’t fully accepted that the loss or transition has happened and there’s no going back.
The juicy work of grief is coming to a place of acceptance of what IS.
Now, I’m all about doing better next time, running through scenarios that I might encounter again so that I am prepared to make healthier choices in the future. Try to differentiate between that and a. beating yourself up for making mistakes or b. finding ways to cheat fate to make it not happen.
When my husband Brice died (and also when my heart dogs Peanut and Bean died), it was kind of fascinating to me that my mind tried out Option b. On a rational level, I knew that whatever I come up with won’t bring the dog or person back to life, but on some deeper level, I think that’s what my mind was looking for. If I could only find some way to prevent his death, it would be prevented. But unfortunately, that’s not how time seems to work. It’s a one-way street as long as we’re here in human bodies, so me coming up with ideas was just delaying my own healing, via acceptance.
So any time I caught myself creating scenarios in which my husband lived, I’d kindly, gently, but with assurance, say something like, “but that didn’t happen. And I can’t fix things. Brice is dead. No matter what I do now, Brice is still dead.” The emotion underneath that distraction tactic was just sadness, and it needed to be allowed to come to the surface.
So I’d pull out a picture and say goodbye to his human incarnation, yet again, allowing my sadness to come back and be fully felt. Sadness had (once again) been held at bay temporarily by my hunt for ideas. I had to feel it in order to dull its sharpness, to integrate the experience instead of shoving it away.
I do this with whatever emotions come up not just sadness. It may be anger (although sadness may still be under that) or fear or something else.
Joy
Joy isn’t about always being happy. It’s just the opposite of suffering. It is savoring whatever experience currently happens, including grief and loss. Joy is the opposite of struggling with your fate. Accepting that I am exactly where I am, and looking at what’s possible from here with an open mind, that’s joy.
And mourning also doesn’t mean happiness isn’t possible. Quite the contrary. After savoring sadness until it flowed away, there would also be regular life, cuddling with the dogs, or times when I would have such amazing gratitude for the people who would hold space for me to talk about Brice. You’ll likely find that the grief ritual will empty your cup of grief for a bit and you go home in an altered state.
There would also times when I’d relive happy experiences we had had together. Sometimes I’d also be crying, while still feeling grateful to have had time with him. In my reading and other learning, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with savoring a past experience, as long as it’s not a way to avoid the present or accepting the loss.
The more I accepted Brice’s death, the longer of a respite I’d have between “grief bursts.” Grief doesn’t come in stages, like they used to think. It comes in waves, where unprocessed grief is triggered by the environment or something in our own minds.
For a month or two after Brice’s suicide, the grief was nearly constant, except for that first moment between waking and realizing he was gone. I would let myself cry whenever I felt like it, as long as it didn’t harm someone else. Soon, there were flickers of calm and joy mixed in. By 6 months out from his suicide, I got 1-3 grief bursts a week. Now, I get them only rarely, usually in grief ritual. They’re generally smaller than before and I’m really grateful when they come, because it ends up releasing tension, like a summer storm. He still comes to mind daily, but now rarely painful. Less sharp, less frequent.
In some ways, it’s not so different from rehabilitating dog reactivity (which is my day job): finding all the triggers and experiencing them in a different way. Except with dog reactivity, we would work the edges, stay where the dog is pushing the comfort zone but still inside of it, because we are dealing with fear, and we also have no way to help the dog process the experience in words.
But with mourning, I’m working on acceptance, and go as deep into the pain as I feel able to do, accepting it and relaxing into it, letting it pour back out of me like water. Similar to the dogs, though, you ever find that you’re ‘over threshold’ and no longer doing healthy behavior (drinking, self-harm, anything like that) then don’t go into the emotion as deeply at the moment – come out of your head, be present in the feeling of your hands and feet, look around you, etc.
Depth is helpful. The key is knowing your own limits, and not going past where your mind can still bring you back. If you feel you might drown in sorrow, go into the discomfort as deeply as feels safe to you, then out, and back in as needed. Titrate.
[P.S. If you’re considering self-harm, please phone a friend, consult a professional, or call/text a crisis line.]
By processing grief, by letting myself feel all of the pain, anger, sadness, happiness, relief, etc. as it comes, I continue to live a life of joy, even with tears streaming down my face. My heart feels bigger, the wild animal inside my heart feels smaller, and slower, more gentle. Experiencing grief builds my compassion, because I see that we are have grief, every one of us.
Allowing others to hear my grief, and listening to theirs, helps me realize yet again that I am not at all alone, even though my individual grief may be unique. Accepting life as it is and leaning toward the possibilities of the future leaves a lot of room for happiness to take root.