In 2017, I wrote about my void. I described it as, “…incredibly loud, apparent, and jarring. To the point that it shakes me to my core.” There were so many things I was still grateful for despite the grief; however, the void was even more boisterous and “expressive” as Clyfford Still, an American painter who often depicted void in his abstract expressionist pieces once said despite the vastly fulfilled parts of our lives.
For the last two weeks or so, I’ve been a fly on the wall.
About a month ago, one of my mother’s friends, who I affectionately call “Imo” (Aunt in Korean) had been freshly minted as a widow. Her husband, Mr. B made his exit from this lifetime after a battle with late-stage Glioblastoma. Talk about timing, Mr. B passed on his 72nd birthday. I found this to be…poetic.
As soon as I returned from a two-month stint in Bangkok, I got straight to work between shuffling paperwork and unintentionally being present for my Imo. After the paperwork or the occasional dog sitting, we would share meals, have bevvies, make small talk, and catch up on k-dramas together. Often, my mother would be present too. As the two spoke, I would silently sit and listen to Imo rehashing what happened that day, who Mr. B was, and the significance of this relationship, of this love was to her in this lifetime.
I could feel her void reverberating.
I could feel her longing and the missing for that specific person, knowing not a damn thing could be done about either of them except to ride it out.
I felt the familiar pang and the heaviness of the heart.
None of it—the sensations, the process, the atmosphere, the timeline, the crushing emotional pain was any different from my grief.
There was a night when I decided to stick around a little longer than usual where, to my surprise, Imo felt safe enough to tell me about her past trauma and explain to me why she and Mr. B’s relationship and love was so significant. As I listened and quietly admired her courage to speak so candidly (and coherently) about her trauma and grief together, I realized I was holding space for my Imo’s grief with the same kind of compassion and empathy I was giving myself recently.
In fact, this was the first time on this grief journey that I felt relief knowing what this all felt like. In the not-so-distant past, I used to recoil in horror and despised knowing what “this” felt like. “I shouldn’t have to know what this feels like, I hate that I know what this feels like,” would be the thing I would say bitterly. Since I’ve been holding space for my grief and purposely tapping into my pain, I bravely began questioning why I felt so put off knowing what I know. Dare I admit it’s likely due to some residual shame and stigma? If it is, I’m finally, freeing myself from my shackles of shame as a young widow.
By doing so, somehow, my emotional pain around grief has lessened and somehow, I’m able to beautifully hold space for another widow’s grief authentically, whole-heartedly, and presently. I’m not sure I’ve been here before. I guess, more places in grief-land have yet to be discovered. Or, is it not grief but some other lovely places encompassing wisdom, love, and openness? Or both?
As Imo continued speaking, there was so much I wanted to tell her.
I wanted to tell her it would eventually be okay and with time, it all passes. I, so desperately wanted to tell her, or better yet, give her a roadmap on grief because she was in so much pain that night. I wanted to clue her in that eventually, her voids would be filled with different things and people; therefore, to not hastily and forcefully try to fill them.
Instead…
All I could tell her was that it was going to take time.
All I could tell her was whenever she felt anger and resentment, she should honor those feelings because she was entitled to both.
All I could tell her was that she was doing all of this right especially when she would apologize for talking about her grief.
Imo doesn’t need a roadmap on grief. Imo already has one and has been navigating it through the darkness, in pain, in mourning, and through her voids. Just like I did nine years ago. I didn’t know it then, but I now know that this is what people meant when they used to tell me, “Trust your process.”
Observing Imo’s grief, I was reminded of why I grieved in the first place. I always said and so have countless others that grief and love are inextricably linked. You can’t have one without the other. I grieved because I loved; and because I loved, I grieved.
This reminder makes grief and all the unpleasant things that come with grieving acceptable and justified.
True to my words and outlook, the voids that were once so loud, apparent, and jarring are no longer the same. A part of my heart that was once in full bloom, filled with the people and things that later became voids, was left bare for a long time. It took courage to return to that space, but I did. With time, patience, dedication, and nurture, that bare plot is mostly in full bloom, though a few spots remain unfilled. I trust that with more time, years, and life lived, they too will be filled.
Now that, my friends, is hope.
And I hope, one day, my Imo’s heart will also find new blooms, as mine has.