This morning my oatmeal exploded in the microwave. An unfortunate start to the day but I like my oatmeal, had already hit capacity and needed to cool down and clean up. It was only 7:30AM.
On Tuesday night the San Diego Unified School System decided that officially e-learning wouldn’t even BEGIN until April 27th and that the chance of returning to the physical classroom is pretty slim given that school is supposed to end on June 13th. Much like those who are on the receiving end of a grim diagnosis, first there was shock, then anger and then a necessary acceptance, but with that came the grief. It began last night and lasted through the morning.
The oatmeal only reflected my tears.
Overflowing.
In many ways, it’s not even about school. It’s about a loss of independence, relationships, structure, daily rhythms and routine. Routine for my children, our family, and myself- both personally and professionally. For the last ten days since the world was turned upside down, we were adapting, with hope, that our new normal would be temporary but the news about school meant that hope was diminishing and that grief was fresh.
It’s at this point that the guilt sets in. Global pandemic or not, so often when we feel deep grief our immediate next step is to minimize it because someone is suffering more than you are. My pain over the loss of a routine feels so trivial in light of this global disease. First of all, we are healthy. We have a home that is comfortable, food in our pantry, internet and access to online learning tools on multiple devices, we have so much when so many don’t have anything at all. Doesn’t that mean that I shouldn’t feel pain because so many others are hurting so drastically right now?
No, not all all.
This is the crucial crossroads where my role as a therapist needs to remind my role as a human being that all pain matters. We do no favors when we compare suffering because then no one gets the attention they deserve. We all get to experience all the emotion, big and small.
After my oatmeal exploded (and my tears), I got myself a fresh version of breakfast and spent the rest of the day leaning into the sorrow instead of denying that it was there. Our tendency (and mine as well) is to make a plan. “How can I conquer this and overcome it?” While plans are helpful it was not the time for that as the grief was rolling over me. Making plans before we can feel the sorrow tends to diminish the pain that does exist. It also can give us a false sense of control because we tend to assume that if our plans are bulletproof enough, then we won’t feel the grief. Unfortunately that isn’t true.
I had to remind myself that my sorrow was allowed. I would argue that it was even needed. It made sense for me. I did NOT need to feel bad for feeling the way that I did. I allowed the children to watch a movie, I took a nap. I didn’t make myself crazy attending every zoom meeting that was (lovingly and well intentioned) scheduled for the various organizations that our family could take part in.
I gave myself permission to grieve. And today, my grief needed permission to rest.
My grief isn’t over. It’s not complete. In fact, I don’t know that we are living in a season that lends itself to emotional completion until we have a vaccine, or at the very least massively flatten this curve. That means new waves of grief and sorrow will continue to wash over us as we attempt to process each and every new regulation or change in routine. Give yourself permission to experience them all. The only way that we will mentally see victory is if we remember to FEEL with each new day. We can’t go into autopilot as we maneuver every changing routines and rhythms. We are conditioned to believe that we can do that but it is just not sustainable.
Tomorrow my oatmeal may cook perfectly. However a week from now it may be the coffee that is bitter or the grocery store doesn’t have the breakfast item I want. There are no guarantees on plans right now, only that we can guarantee our plans will change. So will our emotions. What we can plan for is how to tenderly and lovingly attune to those emotions in a way that places value on all of them, big or small.
The oatmeal doesn’t have to explode to remind you that we are all functioning at max capacity. Where can you give yourself freedom to slow down, cool off, clean up and rest well in this season of chaos? Where can you give yourself what you need in such a time as this? You have my permission.