If ever there’s a time when three singularly innocuous words can set you back, it’s when you have fought through profound loss to a place of healing and someone dismissively says, “It’s time to get over it.” The words don’t even have to be directed at you for them to derail months of emotional progress in your healing journey.

Watched your precious child die slowly and painfully from a ravaging disease you were helpless to fight?  That’s sad, but it’s been five years.  It’s time to get over it.  You desperately prayed and whispered to your spouse as his life ebbed away and you were helpless to stop it?  Oh, that had to be hard, but it’s been two years; get over it.  You began your day like any other but ended it by watching your parent die before your eyes? Gosh, that’s a tough one, but you’ve had almost 25 months to get over it; why haven’t you?

Death is the one and only true equalizer in life, the only sure bet. It comes in a million different forms, but it is just as certain and just as irrevocable for every one of us no matter what it looks like.  Watching it happen to someone you love and knowing you are powerless in the face of it changes you forever. When it happens suddenly, the shock and trauma add another hard-shell layer to the process of grieving and recovery.  It takes work – it often takes professional guidance – and it is arduous.  Get over it?  No such thing.  Decide you will live with it? That’s a far more accurate description.

A woman at the church where I grew up lost her adult son to a sudden heart attack.  Years passed before she was able to sit through a service without tears.  I heard another woman say, “For Heaven’s sake, what has it been? Three years? She’s just doing that for attention.” That was decades ago but I remember it clearly because it was a harsh judgement from someone who normally was so kind.  Years later, that same woman came close to losing her own child far too soon, and I often wondered if she recalled that remark from the past and wished she could take it back. 

Two years after the sudden death of my Chris, I think I’m doing pretty well.  Tears are the exception rather than the rule.  I can look at photos of us and smile to myself without fighting back the painful knot of emptiness and fear that such images once provoked.  I am arriving at a place where I can be excited about the work I do; I feel creative and motivated again; I can look forward to each day as I uncover more about who I am as just me.  Make no mistake, I would not choose this life for myself. The choice I have is to accept the circumstances and build within them.

Do I wish I had accomplished more in these two years? Of course I do.  In fact, I often berate myself for not having used all that stay-out-of-public time we all shared more productively.  I should have immaculate closets, freshly painted rooms, beautiful flower beds and a freezer full of meticulously labeled food ready to pop in the oven.  Reality check: “Should” is as elusive as a unicorn blowing glitter out its exhaust pipe.  “Should” is a dangerous place to set up housekeeping.  “Should” imposes unreachable goals. 

“Did” is a more realistic measure of growth:

I did get out of bed every single day the last two-plus years. 

I did go on adventures whether with friends or family or entirely by myself. 

I did make brand new friends.

I did make sound decisions about finances, home repairs, mental health and even automobiles.

I did take on a role in a play.

I did costume shows for my alma mater during a pandemic.

I did use my experience to minister to my precious sister in the early days of her own grief.

I did and I do counsel my adult children the best that I can, and I listen when they have wisdom for me (and they do).

And “Am” –

I AM going to re-engage face to face in my church rather than hide in the safety of livestream.

I AM setting goals and making plans.

I AM going to grasp exciting opportunities and risk new experiences (unless they involve spiders).

I AM going to love fiercely and laugh loudly.

I am finally over it, right?  Hah. Not by a long shot.  I’m learning to live around it and with it.  The people who are so integral to our lives . . . we don’t get over them when they leave before us.  We simply adapt to their absence because we choose to honor their lives by not letting our own slip through our fingers.  People tell me I am strong, but I have a confession: I am not.  I am willful. Determined. Maybe a little stubborn. Strength does not come from getting over loss. It does not come from stoically tamping down pain and putting on a brave face. Strength comes from leaning into the pain, feeling every blow it strikes, being honest about how much it hurts, then determining to live anyway.

Get over it?  No way.  Live through it? Just watch me.