How Mourning Looks

Mourning is the state of being that allows us to experience our loss within the deepest part of ourselves. It is possible to lose someone we love without intentionally mourning. However, this pent up grief will most likely spill over into our semblance of existence.

We either intentionally mourn or let the grief catch us in its undertow when we least expect it.

My hope is to share “a day in the life of a mourner” with you so that you can feel less alone as you mourn.

Mourning will look different for different people, but you’ll know you’re mourning when you allow yourself to feel your loss in the gut. You may physically feel the twisting of your lower stomach as your heart wrenches at loss.

Please know that not every story of mourning is the same. Sometimes it may take a while for us to exit the stage of shock in losing someone we love. The story below is only a snapshot view of my own mourning experience.

My Story of Mourning | 5 Characteristics of Mourning

1. Mourning might go unseen & unheard

If every moment could be like now.  Stuck in the morning. 

My windows are open. 

I can still hear the birds chirping, a dog barking, some cars moving in the distance, and a light breeze wafting through the room. 

Clear and quiet. 

By quiet, I mean no one is currently invading my space.  Everyone is sleeping.  I don’t have anxiety about who is going to call my name next. 

I love when my name is called, but when I’m trying to wrap my mind around what I must write next or how I can be more methodical about approaching my work, someone calling my name is like a battle cry. 

No one around me seems to understand this.  And it isn’t up to them to understand. 

I need to learn what I need. 

I must set boundaries, be intentional about designing my atmosphere and teach my children there are consequences for invading someone’s space uninvited. 

Despite this morning of reprieve, the past few weeks have been extremely difficult because of mourning a loss. 

2. Mourning is a lonely experience

Despite my love for a morning alone, I don’t particularly enjoy mourning alone.

Mourning alone. 

This is my doing.  And my undoing.

All mourning happens alone though, really. 

Or should I say most all mourning is a lonely process. 

Very few know how to make company with our soul to understand the depth of our loss. 

The one who might have mourned this loss with me, is the very one I’ve lost.

3. Mourning may awaken your vice

Along with this mourning comes an invasive ugly, visceral appetite for all the wrong things. 

What’s so abhorrent about this self-loathing state of being, is that mourning can undo a lot of really good habits we’ve taken months, maybe years to cultivate. 

Added to the disgust I feel for having gone back to eating sugar, I also feel ashamed of myself because something inside seeks to erase the pain of loss. This is a messy process of digging around in the past to question what was even real. 

How can someone be here today and gone tomorrow, while we just keep on living as if nothing ever happened?  This is unreal.  This makes us less than human. But no. This is exactly what we are. Human.

This is what we do. Adapt.  Mourn.  Forget.  Wake up in the morning.

4. Moving on feels like betrayal

Despite me being loyal to more than one person, I am still a loyal person.

So, this moving on, this computer like scan to eliminate the virus of sadness—as I watch it happening, as I watch myself seeking only to preserve myself by hiding my friend away and dropping our rituals—feels like a betrayal.

One part of me thinks I’ll never forget because I was born anew upon meeting them.  Even though this friend is gone, they will always be a part of me, as they reminded me more times than I can count.    

But another part of me wants and needs to forget.  A part of me wants to quickly replace them.  Perhaps with an upgraded version of them. 

A version that won’t die of cancer.  A version who bridges the gap between reality and fantasy.  And yet deeper down, I fear that this soulmate friendship was as good as it gets. 

As much as I’ve been obsessed with the idea of love for an entire lifetime, I’ve gone beyond what I’d ever been able to imagine. 

Now, all that’s left is love itself.  All that’s left is loving everyone.  Loving every moment. 

Loving each new breath I take. 

Or is it? 

I can’t be happy with convention, because convention eliminates our need to learn, to discover. 

I can hear someone wiser in my ear saying, but yes, if you’re truly enlightened, you’ll just sit tight where you are and smile in your soul.

As life happens before you, regardless of the form, regardless of a host to which you must attach your affection–you’ll find joy.

5. Mourning reveals our need for people

But I need people.  I need different kinds of people, connection, and the freedom to need. 

So many (intense) relationships are traps. 

People who need people are also damaged people who may not want to let you connect with souls other than theirs.  This is the strangest thing. 

How we possess but don’t want to be possessed.  How we want to write someone else’s story, but don’t want anyone to edit ours.

I’ve never had a soulmate friend with whom I’ve been so close and yet also remained so separate. 

So free to be. 

And I’m sure there’s no hiding this, how we fight so hard to get back to normal, to replace our muse, to explain our love as a patterned dysfunction so we can control our outcomes better next time. 

I’m 100% convinced I’m evolving.  As messy as this all looks and feels, acceptance is the difference between mourning and morning.  Accepting that as we commit to living life better, healing naturally occurs. 

This friendship was not the end. This love was only the beginning.  Every death is an opportunity for rebirth.  I’ll make the most of this mourning.  I’m not stuck.  I’m not alone.  Unless I choose to be. 

LoveLifeLinks.com believes you can navigate your way through the mourning process, ever how complex it may seem.

Remember, you can feel love anywhere. Anytime. All the time.