When grief gets heavy

On navigating the hardest month of the year

Grief doesn’t show up like it used to anymore.

There was a time when the waves crashed so hard it, all I could do was try to find something to cling onto as my body scraped across the rocks. I’d only have enough time to fill my lungs halfway with air before the next surge was pulling me under.

When you’re in those days—the deepest, darkest grief days—you can’t see an end in sight. I remember thinking to myself, how are other people doing this? Because you truly can’t imagine living the rest of your life with that much intensity, that much pain.

The truth is, you won’t live in that state forever. First, the improvements are so microscopic, the untrained eye wouldn’t notice them; You were able to watch a show you used to like. You had lunch without feeling sick. You went a whole hour without crying. They add up—those little wins—and suddenly your day feels one percent lighter than the one before.

Then, eventually, you have more good days than bad. Your life doesn’t return to normal, but it becomes a new thing—something that you can enjoy even though you still wish your loved one was part of it.

Grief isn’t at my doorstep every day anymore, and for that, I’m grateful. It pops up on random days in unassuming weeks, for no reason at all. However, it always comes to visit, without fail, during the month of May.

Every April I’m swept up in the magic of Spring. The weather is giving us sprinkles of rain to support the growth of new plants. We’re officially out of the chaos of the new year and signs of summer start to show. It’s butterflies and warm afternoons and the smell of fresh rain.

Then something happens toward the end of the month—I feel a fog roll in. I’m still doing all the things that I love, but everything has lost its flavor. My feet are like concrete. The whole world feels heavier. My body knows it’s coming, even when my mind does not. May is my grief month.

Mother’s Day, when my mom was alive, was a reminder that we were estranged. It was a day I worried about her. Where is she? Is she okay? Is she upset? The best I could do was hope that she wasn’t in pain. Then I’d log onto instagram and see countless odes to mothers—I’d look at all of their teethy pictures, smiling from ear to ear, and wonder how God decides which moms go to whom. Then, after she passed, the date became a reminder that she’s gone—and with her left any hope of reconciliation.

May 16th is my brother’s birthday. The last one he had was in 2019 when he turned 31. Now that I’m 35, it’s a painful reminder that I’m getting older and he is not. He’s my big brother, so how is it possible that I’ve passed him in age?

May 27th is the day my brother died. The day I received a call that altered my entire life forever.

Needless to say, May has been challenging to navigate over the years. What’s different now is I’ve built a toolkit for myself. When grief comes, I know what to do. Here are three things I do to ease the pain:

I invite the sadness in.

It took me a long time to learn that grief and sadness want to be acknowledged. Often it’s the resisting, the avoiding, the pretending it’s not there, that actually prolongs the pain. Like a child calling to you at the playground saying “watch this, watch this!” over and over—it will not stop until you pay attention.

I welcome the grief with a hello and I let it be what it is. I don’t require myself to be optimistic. I don’t tell myself that everything is fine. It’s okay to have a moment where you don’t see a silver lining or have anything to add to your gratitude journal. You have permission to be sad—full stop.

I keep reminders around me.

I have lots of items around my house that represent my loved ones. A painting, a shirt, a picture, a book—small reminders in the form of physical objects. Sometimes it’s nice to touch something that makes you think about a loved one. The act of wearing a necklace you got in their honor, holding a key to their house in your palm, or draping their sweater over your shoulders.

Those can be physical representations of their love and a reminder that it’s not gone.

I asked my (deceased) loved ones to help.

Maybe this sounds crazy (as grievers often do), but I love asking my brother to help me. When I feel intense grief, it seems like he’s closer to me than usual. Since he’s already by my side, I ask him to help with the small tasks throughout the day that are harder because of the sadness.

“Can you help me with this work meeting?”

“Can you help me go on a walk?”

It’s a request for support when I need it, but it’s also an invitation for him to be part of my life now. I’m helping to create a world where we still do things together.

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I hope this helps you in some way, but if not, that’s okay too. In the early days of my losses, I found most advice to be unhelpful, cliche or nauseatingly optimistic.

Grief, I’ve learned, takes many shapes, forms, sizes and intensities. When I first experienced loss, I felt like an oak tree that had to stand strong amidst wild, unyielding wind gusts. Every branch that snapped off felt like a failure, like I hadn’t properly weathered the storm. Now, I’ve realized how beautiful and resilient bamboo is in contrast—bending with the wind, rather than resisting against it. It adapts to its environment and finds a way to thrive, even under imperfect circumstances.

As you navigate grief, my wish for you is that everyday you feel more and more like bamboo.