If we’re going to talk grief myths, this one needs to be outed: the myth that the first year is the hardest.
After Dan died, I had no idea what to expect. The “journey” of grief felt like I was peering into a long, dark culvert with no way but through. There was no way around it and no short cut.
I didn’t know how long the culvert was. I only knew the pain was gut-wrenching and hope was the light I couldn’t yet see but had to be somewhere ahead.
That first year, grief was a cavernous, physical pain. Deep sadness was a constant cloak. Every waking moment, every thought, every plan and conversation and memory was laced with loss.
We marked off all the firsts. The first birthdays, the first Christmas, the first anniversary.
Big firsts but also hundreds of small firsts.