Picking Up the Pieces

I used to think picking up the pieces meant having a faith that never asked “Why?”.

I used to think picking up the pieces meant getting over it (that didn’t last long — there is no ‘getting over it’).

I used to think that picking up the pieces meant that they would never fall again.

But Instead of beating myself up that none of the above have resonated with me at all, or for very long, I have decided to redefine what picking up the pieces means. After your world gets smashed to smithereens there are certainly pieces everywhere for a very, very long time and you find yourself in this endless quest to make sense of the mess and left to pick up the pieces that used to be whole.

Picking Up the Pieces

Picking up the pieces is crying so much your face hurts.

Picking up the pieces is not kicking yourself for not crying “enough”.

Picking up the pieces is visiting the cemetery as often or as infrequent as you need to.

Picking up the pieces is realizing you cannot measure your love for your child by what you do or don’t do.

Picking up the pieces is believing you did everything you could.

Picking up the pieces is blasting Van Morrison or the Beach Boys when you just don’t want to cry.

Picking up the pieces is never forgetting the big and little things that made the world a friendlier place after grief stole so much.

Picking up the pieces is taking time for yourself.

Picking up the pieces is challenging yourself to find something to be thankful for.

Picking up the pieces is embracing grief however that might look at any given moment. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Picking up the pieces is understanding that this is only the beginning.

Picking up the pieces is understanding that you have a story with the power to make someone else feel less alone.

Picking up the pieces is ditching your mask.

Picking up the pieces is considering someone else’s broken world. Someone always has it worse. Always.

Picking up the pieces is taking risks.

Picking up the pieces is dancing with reckless abandon.

Picking up the pieces is taking a canvas and throwing paint at it til your hands hurt.

Picking up the pieces is breaking dishes, slamming the door or screaming as loud as you can.

Picking up the pieces is being okay with disappointing some people.

Picking up the pieces is taking responsibility for my own healing and happiness.

Picking up the pieces is accepting that the old me gone and never coming back.

Picking up the pieces is daring to live and breathe and smile without feeling guilty.

Picking up the pieces is embracing this wild and unpredictable emotion that has turned my world inside out, upside down and so many other ways as a lifelong companion.

Picking up the pieces is accepting grief as the product of love — because we cannot grieve over something we did not love.

..

This blog post first appeared on Franchesca Cox’s blog.





  • Comment through Facebook

    comments

    Franchesca Cox

    Franchesca Cox

    Franchesca Cox is the founder and Editor of Still Standing Magazine. She is currently seeking her Master's in Occupational Therapy, a yogi and author of Celebrating Pregnancy Again and Facets of Grief, a creative workbook for grieving mothers. Learn more about her heartwork on her website.

    RELATED POSTS

    LEAVE A COMMENT