Some Days Are Like That
On Trauma Anniversaries & Making Space for Grief
Welcome back to Take What You Need. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m processing some of my own experience in the post today, but I invite you to engage in the ways you need & leave the rest.
Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday.
I woke up heavy and sad; but without the context of why that might be. I’ve been tangentially aware of this date the last few weeks, but today, my body remembered before my brain caught up to the story. And this is how it often goes with complex trauma. So many griefs.
For a moment or two or three, I wondered if I could outrun it. I wanted to outrun it. Honestly, I tried for a bit. But finally I felt the wisdom of the Spirit and my own true self, remind me to soften into the grief. Finally, I allowed my body, mind, and soul to turn toward the great weight of all that’s been lost and never will be. I let my grief have a seat at my table. I tended to her the best I could.
I played the music that allowed me to open the box of darkness I was given by him. I let myself ugly cry. I talked with Brendan. I texted a dear friend. I told the truth about how hard this day is and can be. I held space for what needed to be felt. And then, almost as sudden as the wave came, the wave of grief began to recede. Not cleanly or quickly, but with great intention. Almost like saying, "thank you, I just needed you to see that this matters."
Participating in the Healing
If you’ve followed me for awhile, you may know, that my history of complex PTSD and and complex trauma largely arose from my dad’s narcissistic abuse, though I had complicating factors from several other traumatic events and relationships as well. For my entire childhood and into my adulthood he terrorized, stalked, and abused me and other family members. I can’t and won’t speak for them. But suffice it to say, it cost so very much to be raised by someone who could continually harm you and yet blame you for your own harm.
And as many of you know: 2.5 years ago, just weeks before Strong like Water was born, my dad died, after having been no contact with him for 16 years1. And though I’ve experienced much healing and had much peace over this decision and continue to, I felt a wave of lament hit me this morning in a way it hasn’t in a long time. The heaviness of the pain, the grief, the reality of who he couldn’t be but also was. The realization that sometimes you really did have to be that strong.
Yet, I am heartened to see that I have learned to honor when my body asks for attention and care; that too, is healing. And some days are simply those kinds of days. Today I’m being profoundly kind to myself and I’m remembering that though my father could never give me the repair I so deeply needed and deserved—I can choose to participate in the ongoing repair of the millions of ruptures that were done to me. I can heal anyway. And so I grieve, but I also tend. I also nourish. I also honor. Because I really do believe — and have experienced — this is how we find the way through.
May it be so. -AK
Need more resources & insight? Check out my best selling books:
Try Softer (Over 160,000 sold)
Strong like Water Guided Journey
Take What You Need: Soft Words for Hard Days
*A reminder that this space is not meant to substitute medical or psychiatric individualized advice. If you are having a mental health emergency, please call or text 988 or go to your local emergency room.
A gentle reminder that this is my personal story and not a prescription for all toxic, harmful, or abusive relationships. There is a whole spectrum of ways to navigate these dynamics depending on your story, support, etc, and it’s important to access support as you consider the best steps for you.
I'm so sorry for your pain. This was well-timed- today is the 8th anniversary of my dad's passing, and he also left me a box of darkness and my body also remembers, usually before my brain does.
I’m so sorry for this indescribably painful loss. The way our bodies remember amazes me sometimes! And I’m glad you knew what you needed and allowed yourself to lean into the grief.