Wishing You a Hope-Filled New Year - BLOG
“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they said.
That first year, and second, I heard those heartfelt wishes from my family and friends, knowing they had the best of intentions. I’d smile and say, “Thanks, you too.” That’s all I could manage. I couldn’t even say the words “merry” or “happy” without choking on them.
As a newly grieving mom, those best wishes didn’t make me feel merry or happy.
They made me feel unsupported and misunderstood. Invisible, even. Worse, it made me feel like my son, Tristan, was invisible, just because he was dead. Because how could anybody wish me a happy new year if they stopped to consider that it would be a year with Tristan gone: he’d be absent on his birthday, he’d miss every family gathering, he wouldn’t decorate for Halloween, or open his Christmas stocking. He was just... gone. My merriment and happiness were gone along with him, and in their place settled a soul-searing pain.
I’m just fine with my crippling pain, thank you very much. Leave me to it! I’d say to myself behind the bared teeth of my fake smile.
But, over time, grief loosened its grip on me, just a little. And then a little more. And with that tiny bit of new space within me, something unexpected happened: I began to hope.
I had spent many years hoping for things for Tristan. I had hoped he’d get sober. I had hoped he’d keep this job. I had hoped he knew how much he was loved. I had hoped he’d learn to love himself. And he did all of those things, for a while. Until he didn’t anymore.
The problem with hope for others is that we have no control over other people, even our grown children. Hope for others is wishful thinking, like hoping we’ll win the lottery when we don’t even buy a ticket. It feels good to dream about, but does very little other than distract us in the moment and disappoint us when our hopes don’t come to fruition.
The most powerful, life-changing hope—the only hope that we’re in control of turning into reality—is hope for ourselves.
As life-long grievers, despair is a place we may need to visit occasionally, but we don’t need to live there. Hope shines a light to happier places.
In the weeks and months following the death of a child, hope can be difficult. Start small. I remember hoping to just keep breathing, to find one tiny thing of beauty in each day, or to feed myself something other than potato chips. I hoped I could make it to the grocery store and back, with groceries in hand. Or not get irrationally furious at young men I saw on the street who seemed to be usurping Tristan’s place in the world.
Later, I hoped to feel joy again, and enjoy the nourishment of human connection. Ultimately, I hope to live a full life with passion and purpose and no regrets left untended. I’m leaning hard into that hope.
And that’s the catch: hope needs us to be active participants. Hope requires compassion for where we are now, a vision of where we want to be, and a willingness to do the work to get there. It not just recognizes our desire for something, but acknowledges the possibility of achieving it. Hope for ourselves creates space within us, making room for healing. It moves us onward in our new world of grief and gives us a way to find purpose again, no matter how small. Today, your purpose may be simply to get out of bed and have a shower. Next week you may want to phone a friend or play with your grandchild. In time, you may hope to remember your loved one with more laughter than tears.
I believe that New Year’s resolutions are overrated at the best of times, and they’re certainly not for newly grieving parents. Instead of telling yourself what you should do this year, take a moment and simply ask yourself: “What do I hope for, for me?” If you struggle to answer that question, ask yourself this: “What kind of life did I wish for my child?” And then, hope for that for yourself because you are worthy and deserving of all good things in life too. Even if you need to start slowly, one breath at a time.
I won’t dishonour your grief by telling you to have a happy New Year, this year (though, if you are ready for that, I wish you ALL the happiness!). Instead, I’m sending you my heartfelt wishes for a hope-filled New Year.
Author, Kathy Wagner
www.kwagnerwrites.com