Hello and welcome in! “Noticing & Naming” is a new series where I share a reflection about the previous month. I’m considering this post practice for me—a chance to practice paying attention to my life and putting the hidden, but deeply true, things into words. For more of my thoughts behind this, check out last month’s post.
February’s drastic temperature swings seem like a good metaphor for how the month felt. It was a month colored by grief, and tears were never far from the surface. And yet, I was also met with the warmth of handwritten notes and generous conversations with long-time friends and new friends alike. I learned a couple things about when to press in and when to walk away, and I attempted to be the tiniest bit more gentle with myself in the process.
For February’s practice, I’m bringing you five things I noticed, four things I named, three questions for you, and quotes from two books I can’t stop thinking about. Let’s dive in.
Five Things I Noticed:
I’m trying to pay attention to the world around me and to the details of my days. Sometimes these observations may lead to bigger realizations, but other times, the act of noticing is enough. Here are five things I noticed last month:
Tears came very easily in February. I cried in the back pew of a church, while watching the news, at the end of a barre class, with a small group in my living room, alone in my car, in my therapist’s office, and at home with Isaac. The frequency of tears welling up and spilling out in private and public alike led me to take a closer look at what this past month held. (See number one below.)
I got an unusual number of handwritten notes this month, mostly by mail, which was a delight. I also received some well-timed texts and Voxer messages, and I couldn’t stop thinking about people’s kind, thoughtful words.
Kansas had some sunny, unseasonably warm days in February, and while the warmth was glorious, my mind and body were confused by the vast fluctuations in temperature. I felt energized, lethargic, and antsy, sometimes all in the same day. I’m not sure how to settle in to a season when I’m sitting outside over lunch and running for cover from hail by that night.
I only checked out one audiobook last month, and I kept avoiding listening to it. Once I noticed this, I got curious and started paying closer attention. I found that each time I listened to it, I walked away feeling defensive and/or critical of myself. (See number four below.)
I noticed an all-too-familiar anxiety this past month, and it seemed to bubble up around a specific set of circumstances. I’m not entirely sure what to do about this yet, but I’m recognizing a pattern and I think that’s a helpful place to start. (I also noticed that I chose to drink a second cup of coffee anyway. So there’s that.)
Four Things I Named:
I have a loud internal life, and naming what’s going on the inside helps to quiet things down. When we can put thoughts and emotions into words, fear begins to lose its power, next steps come into focus, and we realize that we’re not actually alone. Here are four things I named in February:
There were many valid reasons why grief was so near the surface last month. February included a funeral for a friend’s mom, a dinner honoring the anniversary of another friend’s mom’s passing, a mass shooting in Kansas City, hearing heavy parts of other people’s stories, and processing my own grief (and fear of future loss) in therapy. Oof. Listing out all of these realities gave me perspective and grace for myself when tears continued to appear unexpectedly.
Acknowledging someone else’s grief and pain can be awkward. I’m finding this is true even when I’ve experienced similar loss. Somehow that doesn’t automatically make it easier. Even if I can relate to what someone else is going through, I’m still afraid of saying the wrong thing. I worry that I’ll ramble or overstep or presume to know how they feel. I worry that I’ll make it about me. Sometimes it feels stilted. Sometimes I read into their reactions. (Were they trying to get away from me ASAP or just trying not to cry?) Any way you look at it, I’m pretty sure I’m going to do it wrong.
In her book What Grieving People Wish You Knew about What Really Helps (and What Really Hurts), Nancy Guthrie helps to normalize this for me. Even though she has experienced immense personal loss and worked with countless grieving people, she still sometimes finds herself not knowing what to say to comfort people. She says, “Let’s face it—it’s awkward. We want to say something personal, something meaningful, beautiful, helpful, sensitive. Something that demonstrates that we have a sense of what they’re going through. And what we don’t want is to be that person who says the stupid, insensitive thing.”
So along with Nancy, I’m naming that it may just feel awkward. Grief is messy, and we are broken people who can’t offer ultimate comfort to each other. I want to free myself from the pressure to say the perfect thing in the perfect moment, as if such a thing exists. I want to keep trying to say something that communicates I see you and I’m so sorry, and I’d rather risk it coming out awkwardly than say nothing at all. Nancy says, “It matters less what you say than that you say something. . . .Your purpose in saying something is to enter into the hurt with them and let them know they are not alone.”It is such a gift when people hold space for your story. It’s a gift when people make eye contact through your tears, nod while you’re speaking, open up about their own losses, and follow up with you afterward, especially if you’re afraid you’ve shared too much. Getting to share your story without being rushed or interrupted is rare, powerful, and beautiful.
Some things are not for me right now, and that’s okay. This month it was an audiobook that I returned to the library unfinished, but other times it has been an email list I unsubscribed from or an Instagram account I muted.
When someone’s words are repeatedly rubbing against raw areas of my life, poking fun at things that I find helpful, or leading me into any kind of negative thought-spiral, I can choose to walk away. It doesn’t mean I’m being overly sensitive. It doesn’t mean that that person doesn’t have great things to say. It doesn’t mean I might not enjoy that content in a different season. It just means that those words are not for me right now.
Choosing to quiet certain voices in certain seasons is healthy and wise. It’s also low-stakes—I’m not hurting anyone by opting out, which is a good reminder for a conflict-avoidant person like myself. However, I am choosing to be gentle with myself, and that matters. Maybe I’ll come back to that book someday. Maybe not. But for now, I’m choosing to pay attention to what my thoughts are doing in light of specific content, and I’m choosing to be kind to myself over forcing myself to read something I think I should like.
Questions for Your Practice:
Think about a time of loss and grief in your life. What do you remember most about the people who were there for you? What would it look like to embrace the awkwardness and move toward someone you know who is grieving?
Remember a time when someone let you fully share what was on your mind without interrupting. What did they do (or not do)? How did it make you feel? How can you offer that kind of generous hospitality to someone else this week?
Reflect on the media you consumed last month. Did any books, podcasts, shows, social media accounts, etc., seem to deflate you? Maybe you walked away feeling critical of yourself, judgmental of others, or more anxious about something. What would it look like to decide that content is not for you right now?
Words That Resonated:
In an effort to give us more language for our lives, here are four quotes from two books that stuck with me over the last month.
What Grieving People Wish You Knew about What Really Helps (and What Really Hurts) by Nancy Guthrie
If you’re walking alongside someone who is grieving or if you’re looking for some language for your own grief, Nancy’s book is packed with truth, encouragement, and super-practical next steps.
“Over many years now of interacting with grieving people—most of whom emerge from their experience of sorrow bent on setting the world straight on what to say and what not to say to people like themselves—I’ve learned a thing or two that people going through grief wish people understood. . . . the first and most important thing I have to tell you in this: It matters less what you say than that you say something. . . . Really, there is nothing you can say that will make their loss hurt less. It’s going to hurt for a while. They’re not looking for you to make sense of it or to say something they haven’t thought of or something that makes it not hurt. Your purpose in saying something is to enter into the hurt with them and let them know they are not alone.”
“Letting grieving friends know that as much as you desire for the load of grief to be lessened in their life, you have no intention of rushing them through it, nor will you insist that they get back ‘to normal’ on your timetable. This is a great gift of friendship. To be a patient friend over the long haul of grief requires a lot of dying to self and serving another.”
Know My Name by Chanel Miller
I learned so much about the brutal reality of life for sexual assault survivors through Chanel’s memoir. I was also carried along by her beautiful writing and her poignant descriptions of grief and loss, the grueling nature of the criminal justice system, and the long road of healing. This book is heavy but powerful, and picking just a couple of quotes to share felt impossible.
“You will find society asking you for the happy ending, saying come back when you’re better, when what you say can make us feel good, when you have something more uplifting, affirming. This ugliness was something I never asked for, it was dropped on me, and for a long time I worried it made me ugly too. It made me into a sad, unwelcome story that nobody wanted to hear. But when I wrote the ugly and painful parts into a statement, an incredible thing happened. The world did not plug up its ears, it opened itself up to me. I do not write to trigger victims. I write to comfort them, and I’ve found that victims identify more with pain than platitudes. . . . I write to stand beside them in their suffering. I write because the most healing words I have been given are It’s okay not to be okay.”
As a writer, I felt this one to my core:
“Writing is the way I process the world. . . .This was the topic I was given. If something else had happened to me, I would have written about that too. When I get worked up over what happened, I tell myself, you are a pair of eyes. . . . My job is to observe, feel, document, report. What am I learning and seeing that other people can’t see? What doorways does my suffering lead to? People sometimes say, I can’t imagine. How do I make them imagine?”
That’s it for February’s practice, friends. Keep Chanel’s words in mind as you name your own struggles and pain this month. What are you learning and seeing that other people can’t see? What doorways does your suffering lead to?
Really good reminders here, Missy. Thank you. ❤️