10 Weeks of Quarantine. Thoughts on Grief.
I’m writing this in week 10 of quarantine. Depending on where you live, you might be slowly emerging from quarantine or you might still be deep in the shutdown. I’m in NYC...so it’s pretty darn deep. Our country is on fire this week in response to the death of George Floyd, pain and outrage around the systematic racism in our country. The grief runs deep. Wherever you are, I hope you and your loved ones are safe and healthy.
We could write books on the lessons, revelations and truths that have been unearthed during this time. The “before” feels very hazy (what was February like again? Did I wear pants every day?) and the “after” feels very squinty (could open up in August, could open up in 2022 - nobody really knows) … but the “during,” the where we are right now, is clear as day.
What a reminder that we really only have this moment. What was can be stripped away in the blink of an eye and what might be can be turned on its head before our eyes.
There’s been a lot of talk about grief and trauma during this. At first, it felt like a lot of Instagram quote therapy and vulnerability-speak. But it has the depth and steadfast hold of grief. Maybe it really is grief. And if that’s true, then what else is true?
I’m grieving.
I’m not grieving the happy hours or the Equinox membership or even the hugs. Those will return. I’m grieving the release of who I was before I was given universal permission to pause along with the headspace and heartspace to see and feel what’s going on in our world. What if we weren’t forced into quarantine, but rather we were given permission to pause, see, feel and act? An invitation to slow down, get quiet, sit with our truth and take space to find the courage to say, “if I was really being honest…”
It’s not a loss or a death, but a sweet release and a walking into.
Maybe you’re grieving, too. Maybe you’re using this time to release some of what didn’t serve you and to embrace space. Headspace, heartspace, calendar space - they all count. Or maybe you’re grieving the life you had pre-quarantine because it was exactly the life you want to be living and you hunger for its return. They’re both beautiful things to grieve : confirmation that you have a life you love or clarity that a new life and truth is ready for you with open arms.
In the bell curve of life, most of us will fall somewhere in the middle. That’s where I am. Some things will come back with intention because they’re good and essential (a word we’ve come to know all too well). Some will be released.
Creating space feels good. You have to create space, grieve the release of something you once felt rooted in, in order to bring the new in. Cutting cords can be hard. Where there’s birth, there’s blood. Some ways I’m grieving and creating space:
Juggling: I was the queen of juggling before this. Focus, true “flow” focus, wasn’t happening. I was checking email every 40 seconds, while posting on Instagram, while texting a friend, while making a hair appointment. What I wasn’t doing: reading a book, writing a book, really listening to the person on the other end of the line. This quiet time has given me a new appreciation for focus and the beautiful “flow” that comes with paying attention.
Approval: I was born a pleaser. My parents fought a lot when I was a little girl, and being good and easy was my job. Don’t make things harder than they already are. I sought approval outside of myself. This time in quarantine has put me face-to-face with myself more than ever before. What if I was the one I was trying to impress? What if I was the one I wanted to please?
Certainty: it’s been said that a person’s happiness can be measured by their ability to handle uncertainty. Nothing is certain and every moment is yours, mine and ours to create. There is no path and no plan. That’s a false story we tell ourselves to release responsibility for the now and the future (the world) we choose to create. I’ve let go of the false narrative of certainty to root myself in the present moment and, each day, choose the life I want to live and who I want to be in the world.
This isn’t finished. I don’t think it ever will be. Grieving feels heavy, but somehow it also feels really, really light when it transforms into release. So I hope you’re grieving. I sure am.
