There is a certain strength that comes from walking through fire. You come out the other side with your eyebrows scorched and your mindset changed forever, but there is a definite sense of gratitude and success from the mere act of surviving and remaining intact — without falling completely to pieces, because that would have been so much easier than making it through the flames.
No one chooses to experience a devastating life loss. Hell, we all do everything we can to avoid one. There is nothing good to be said about deep, enduring and hellacious grief.
Or is there?
I realized yesterday that I wouldn’t want to go back to the person I used to be — before. As for the life I had before? I’d take that in less than half an instant. But the person I used to be?
No.
Because deep, life-altering grief forces you to grow in ways you never could have imagined. That growth changes you into almost a completely new version of yourself, and while you hate the sadness, the loss and the life event that brought it about, you realize you really like who you are becoming. Have become.
I always hated when people told me I was strong. Lots of people said that in hopes of providing comfort. Trouble was, I didn’t feel strong. Grief had literally leveled me to the ground.
But in the last five-plus years, I have cultivated an ability like none other. Much like grief kicked me to the curb in ways far beyond my control, it also gave me a strength unknown to me in the before.
Superman possesses the power of x-ray vision. He doesn’t see more than regular people; he sees through things.
That’s exactly what grief does: it makes the chaos and noise of daily life superfluous. You are able to see past it and focus on the things that really matter. And it is nearly effortless. I simply understand, to the core of my being, what is — and is not — truly important.
I do not take this gift lightly. Neither do those traveling the grief journey alongside me.
Grief is a completely unique experience for each person experiencing it, but it culminates in some similar outcomes. These often include the clarity of Superman’s x-ray vision.
From this clarity comes peace, but it’s not a cotton candy, lollipops and unicorns kind of peace. It’s built on a bedrock of love and loss, clarity and strength. Peace, when earned through tragic loss, becomes a solid, indestructible foundation. It becomes a steadfast presence in your life — one you protect with all your being.
Once you have weathered the worst storm imaginable, once you have walked through the flames of grief, the little things don’t shake you anymore. And 99.9 percent of all things are little things.
Most of them don’t scorch your eyebrows or level you to the ground; thank goodness for that. None of us would choose that path in life, but when it does happen, and you find yourself five and a half years down the road — a survivor — standing on the other side, you realize the hard-won gifts you found in the ashes are treasures you’ll never take for granted, and never throw away.
— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears occasionally in the Times. She can be reached at slicescolumn@gmail.com.
