Becoming a Mermaid

October 5, 2025

Grief is a bugger. Despite all my self-care and the routines, I have built to keep me going, last week I faltered. Meditation, journaling, yoga and prayer are necessary just to get out of the house each morning. At the end of the day, I have a less involved routine, but still need to read something inspirational, pray and immerse myself in a silly book or do something distracting for an hour or more to be able to sleep. Each day I try to walk at least 10,000 steps, I lift weights twice a week, see a chiropractor weekly and I hit two to three self-help groups for families of addicts and/or grieving parents. I take writing classes most weeks for a creative outlet. Once a week I volunteer as a literacy tutor for recovering addicts, I talk to sponsees a few times a week and I work a full-time job. Sometimes I have energy to socialize with friends or to plan a trip.

Last weekend I hit a wall. I became emotional and broke down at my support group meeting after a stressful drive to northern Virginia in the pouring rain with aggressive traffic. The group leader was kind and reminded me to breathe and to let the feelings flow. She assured me that the intense emotions would ebb again, if I let them follow their natural course. She further challenged me to find a time to let go completely so that I can begin to heal on a deeper level.

The truth is, I have been hesitant to really let go or “fall apart,” for fear that I could never pull myself back together. It feels like I have been treading water far from the shore for over two years. On Sunday morning, I let myself stay in my pajamas, cry and write all morning. By 1:00 pm or so, the waves had slowed. I felt better and went out for a walk and proceeded with some of my regular weekend routine.

 Later in the week, I reached out to the support group leader when another wave of grief threatened to take me under at work. Kathy gave me the best analogy to hold onto. Grief is like the ocean. Sometimes it is calm and there are only small waves, and the world seems bright and sunny. At other times, storms come, and the ocean roils with white caps, and the currents threaten to pull you under.  We have choices. We can fight against the current and be pulled further from shore by the rip tide. We can learn to relax and ride the waves. Or, better yet, we can become mermaids, diving under the waves as emotions swirl around us and reemerging to sun on a rock after the storm has passed.

Getting out of the ocean altogether is not an option. Grief over losing a child lasts a lifetime. My new goal is to adapt and learn to live in the new watery environment. Fortunately, I love the ocean so focusing on the analogy is helpful. I can even let myself recall how much Alex loved playing in the waves and boogie boarding. I can imagine him smiling as he floats along beside me.