A vocational rehabilitation therapist, that is what Faye told me was her official job title. I had no idea what this string of knotty words meant. It sounded like nothing at all. I was not tolerating the unknown well.
Amy, your words are so beautiful, every phrase is exquisite. It meant so much to get this post today. My best friend died in her sleep on July 4 & I don't know how to go on without her. She was my heart, my daily touchstone for 29 years & the suddenness of this is beyond anything I have ever gone through in my 68 years. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your words & your heart & your pain with all of us
I came across your book at my local library a couple of months ago. Your words pierced my heart. You have a knack for clarity, which I love, especially about hard and nuanced experiences, like grief. I used to be a writer of grief, too.
What is it like to be me? Lonely, mostly. Yesterday, I stumbled upon some old journals from my teen years. I read a few pages and thought, YES. THIS IS STILL ME. Still wondering, still asking those unanswerable questions, still seeking.
To be human is complicated, I think. At least it is for me. I am 43 years old and still struggle with learning how to simplify my life: the way I think, especially. Meaning, not to overthink or ruminate, which I tend to do.
It is refreshing to find another voice (yours) who writes about the hard things and isn't afraid to go deep.
Very helpful to think about the bigger context of 'movement.' In my own months of 'ground all the way down' acute loss, I could not move from my couch. 'Movement' didn't feel like a thing...I wanted to do, valued, felt drawn to.
Thank you . I’m now going to go back and reread it again, as there is so much more there, than that which first appears . BTW I just LOVE the image you used. 💞💝
Underneath the oceanically heavy wet blanket of the grief - I WANT to do more AND there are only little steps - AND those are only made up of what I CAN do.
In moments that feel at least like a simulation of decoupling from that heaviness of being under this ocean made of wet wool made from grieving sheep - my mind is SO anxious to grab that opportunity and take stock of all that I am still NOT able to do. And then that is the battle; to tell that voice to fuck off.
Amy, your words are so beautiful, every phrase is exquisite. It meant so much to get this post today. My best friend died in her sleep on July 4 & I don't know how to go on without her. She was my heart, my daily touchstone for 29 years & the suddenness of this is beyond anything I have ever gone through in my 68 years. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your words & your heart & your pain with all of us
I am a container of the greatest amount of human grief and the greatest amount of joy. The strangest of paradoxes - to be holding them both.
Thank you, Amy.
I came across your book at my local library a couple of months ago. Your words pierced my heart. You have a knack for clarity, which I love, especially about hard and nuanced experiences, like grief. I used to be a writer of grief, too.
What is it like to be me? Lonely, mostly. Yesterday, I stumbled upon some old journals from my teen years. I read a few pages and thought, YES. THIS IS STILL ME. Still wondering, still asking those unanswerable questions, still seeking.
To be human is complicated, I think. At least it is for me. I am 43 years old and still struggle with learning how to simplify my life: the way I think, especially. Meaning, not to overthink or ruminate, which I tend to do.
It is refreshing to find another voice (yours) who writes about the hard things and isn't afraid to go deep.
Very helpful to think about the bigger context of 'movement.' In my own months of 'ground all the way down' acute loss, I could not move from my couch. 'Movement' didn't feel like a thing...I wanted to do, valued, felt drawn to.
You have no idea how timely this post was when I read it. Thank you for penning this piece. You are a light <3
This is such a hard lesson to learn - I come to it over and over - thanks for the beautiful reminder that that is okay too💕
Thank you . I’m now going to go back and reread it again, as there is so much more there, than that which first appears . BTW I just LOVE the image you used. 💞💝
Every day is like this...
Underneath the oceanically heavy wet blanket of the grief - I WANT to do more AND there are only little steps - AND those are only made up of what I CAN do.
In moments that feel at least like a simulation of decoupling from that heaviness of being under this ocean made of wet wool made from grieving sheep - my mind is SO anxious to grab that opportunity and take stock of all that I am still NOT able to do. And then that is the battle; to tell that voice to fuck off.
Excellent , Thank you for that . 💞