Flow

I just got out of my training group. What’s a training group, you may ask? Well, let me tell you. We’re a group of mid-career psychotherapists in private practice who meet weekly, guided by our skilled group leader, to support one another. Our goal is to deepen our understanding of ourselves and how we show up with others, so we can show up more fully with and for our clients.

Today, one of the group members shared that his cat of fifteen years had died. It was a tender moment, full of care and connection. I felt it deeply, and it made me reflect on my own journey with grief.

I was in seventh grade and actively involved in Pathfinders. Raised Seventh-day Adventist, Pathfinders was the church’s version of scouts. Ostensibly liberal-leaning, our co-ed group of young people focused on physical health, spiritual growth, and Christian citizenship. Much like traditional scouts, we went on camping trips including international camporees, raced pinewood derby cars, practiced drill and marching, and took special skills classes to earn badges for our uniforms.

I was very involved and looked forward to our weekly meetings. The director of our local club, Don, was a fun-loving guy - always joking around, but serious when he needed to be. His smile was contagious, entering the room before he would and lingering well after he was gone. I looked up to him and respected his ability to balance fun with work. Plus, when I quietly vied for more leadership opportunities within the club, he encouraged it. “Timothy, you’re going to be the director one day,” he’d say. (Spoiler alert, I was deputy director for several years of the largest Pathfinder club in our region). 

Then he died. Unexpectedly.

The night before his funeral, I remember lying in bed, bound up in my grief and sadness, thinking of him. My parents and brothers were all asleep- including my younger brother who shared the room with me. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking about the last pinewood derby, when Don helped me sand my little wooden car just right. He was so very patient and seemed to know exactly what my car needed. (I won second place that year!). 

I felt overwhelmed by the realization that I would never see him again. I didn’t know what that meant, or how to make it make sense. I started sobbing. Quietly at first - tears soaking my pillowcase. I pulled the covers over my head. It only made it worse. I couldn’t stop. I don’t remember falling asleep that night, but I remember waking up.

Somewhere between crying myself to sleep and waking the next morning, something shifted. I knew I was sad, but I couldn’t feel it anywhere in my body.

I got out of bed. Put on my suit and tie. Went to the funeral. Hugged my friends and family. Listened as people said beautiful things about Don. Held others while they cried. And I felt numb.

That night was the last time I cried for 15 years.

Instead, I got really good at intellectualizing emotions. I could talk about sadness; I just couldn’t feel it. I became the person my friends and family came to when they were overwhelmed and needed support. I listened. I held space. I learned what to say and when to be still. And I absorbed all of it.

I carried that learning into school as I earned my Master’s in Social Work, and then to a career as a therapist. Priding myself on creating healing space for the most difficult clients - the ones carrying the heaviest emotional loads to unburden - I meanwhile buried myself.

I couldn’t, or didn’t want to, create the same space for me.

Part of me was worried it would overwhelm, becoming too much to hold. Another part hoped I was above feeling sad. Crying was for other people - perhaps weaker people. Not me. I was stronger than that.

I wish I could tell you more about the exact moment I allowed myself to cry again. That is another story for another time (stay tuned - I will share). What I will say is that it took another unexpected tragedy to crack me open and bring the tears back. Giving myself permission to cry became pivotal in helping me reconnect with my emotions.

My friends tease me now - lovingly, of course - about how easily I access tears.

At a local theater, I sobbed so loudly my friend feared they might pause the show.

In conversation over tea, my heart leaks through my eyes.

Listening to my nephew play his viola, tiny pools engulf my vision. 

Watching an Instagram reel, tears roll down my cheeks.

Even the Love Is Blind reunion show leaves me misty.

It feels natural now. The tears just come, flowing without pressure. And I kind of love it. Especially knowing how much I held alone for so long.

I’ve been reading a book this week and one passage stuck with me. It’s by adrienne maree brown, in Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds. (Phenomenal!). This excerpt felt personal, like someone dug into my brain and put language to the learning I've been doing.

“Remember you are water. Of course you leave salt trails. Of course you are crying. 

Flow. 

P.S. If there happens to be a multitude of griefs upon you, individual and collective, or fast and slow, or small and large, add equal parts of these considerations: 

• that the broken heart can cover more territory. 

• that perhaps love can only be as large as grief demands. 

• that grief is the growing up of the heart that bursts boundaries like an old skin or a finished life. 

• that grief is gratitude.

• that water seeks scale, that even your tears seek the recognition of community. 

• that the heart is a front line and the fight is to feel in a world of distraction. 

• that death might be the only freedom. 

• that your grief is a worthwhile use of your time. 

• that your body will feel only as much as it is able to. 

• that the ones you grieve may be grieving you. 

• that the sacred comes from the limitations. 

• that you are excellent at loving.”

I’m learning to embrace my water-ness. To flow. To allow myself to feel the emotions that arise without stifling or pushing them away. Befriending my tears is necessary in my ongoing journey of learning how to love - love that moves, expands, and sometimes spills over the edge.

I imagine that Don is somewhere smiling as I finally let the water flow. 

Image by Annie Roenkae