At first, I cry and beg for grief not to change my heart—for it not to steal my hope, my purpose, and my light. I beg for it to be kind and patient and gentle. I pray for it not to alter the contents of my heart or transform the elements of my soul.
If only it were that easy.
I urge grief to work carefully on everything that it touches—each person and each thing. I ask that it remember that we are hurting, and scared, and broken. I show my wounds and scars from this loss, vulnerably placing each shattered piece and hollowed space on display as proof of how different I’ve become.
To the outside world these wounds are invisible, to me they are horrific and obvious.
When I can barely find my voice, I whisper, asking grief to pause and slow down because things are happening at a pace that I can’t seem to grasp or comprehend. It doesn’t do either because it can’t. This vortex is powered by outside forces. It’s powered by the love, the influence, and the blessings of this relationship—which were unwavering and endless. Which means this grief is the same—unwavering and endless. The two are built the same—powerful and profound.
And as I find myself asking grief not to change my heart, I realize it already has. Loss immediately transforms each thing that it touches. Some of the changes devastate you and some of them inspire you. It takes time to realize the distinction.
Before you can ask grief to leave you protected and unharmed, it has already penetrated each piece of who you are and who you will be.
Grief holds lessons only loss and mourning can teach you. Realities that you cannot comprehend until you’re living them. Grief chisels you into something new before you ever realize a transition is happening. It collects the important pieces from the past and uses them, with intention and purpose, for what remains.
Before you can ever ask grief not to change your heart, or your soul, or your future, it already has.
It has already become a shadow that you cannot escape. It’s already become like a new skin, covering the old version of you completely, the version of you that didn’t know death’s consequence and destruction. The you that didn’t know the pain of missing someone– forever.
As I cry and beg for grief not to change my heart, I realize it already has.
Before you can ever ask grief not to change you, it already has.
