your grief taught you how to show up
Three years after saying goodbye to Moxy, my dear Papa passed away from COVID-19 complications, right before they started rolling out the first vaccines. Still in his early 70s, still active and hard-working and full of the best belly laughs, none of us saw it coming. Because we were still caught in a pandemic and there were travel restrictions, my family didn’t expect me to attend his funeral, 2,000 miles away.
It took me all of one hour to decide I was going and how I was going to get there (and that was mostly because I was in shock). By the next morning, Teddy and I were packed and in my car before dawn, beginning the long, wintry trek from Utah to Pennsylvania.
In grieving Moxy first, in having traversed the wild territory of grief, it was like I now had muscle memory; I knew what was needed. I knew how to let my body grieve for the man, our family’s patriarch, who’d helped pave the way for and sustain my existence. I knew how to watch the burning emptiness of my belly as it moved upward to lodge itself in my throat and then turn into tears flowing freely. I knew how to honor his life, how to kiss his forehead in the open casket, how to speak the words from the center of my chest.
Most importantly, I knew how to be present and show up for the people around me because this time, it wasn’t just about me and my grief. This time, the immense grief was shared, and it was my turn to play a supporting role. My heart wasn’t the heaviest in the room.
Everything I’d experienced—all the love and the lessons and the tools—was brought to bear as I spent time with my Mama, my father, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I could sit with them and listen as they told stories; I could sit with them in silence. I could hold their hands or hug them when they cried; I could allow their anger or despair or disorientation. No judgment or pity, no fixing or spiritual bypassing—I could simply be a safe, open space. I could make food or tea, clean up, make phone calls, go on walks, run errands, help with pets, check vital signs. All of this I could do—even through my own grief, my own fear—because of Moxy.
And honestly? I loved feeling like I could be of use. I loved having the chance to take care of people who’d taken care of me (Mama, particularly), encountering these full-circle moments where our arms were holding each other across time. I loved honoring my Papa and all he built, knowing he’d be proud of how I’d shown up, continuing his legacy of serving others. And every so often, I’d send up a prayer of gratitude to my baby, and to Life, for all that had happened the past few years, for all that had changed me, for the strength I’d been given I knew wasn’t mine alone. Thank you for bringing me here.
This is how it is. One of the dark gifts of enduring your own grief journey is coming out the other side re-shaped, endowed with priceless wisdom: how to be a worthy companion of grief, and how to be a worthy companion to others in their grief. And part of that wisdom came from the people who showed up for you during your most vulnerable time and showed you kindness. They taught you what felt truly supportive, truly nourishing.
You learned how to separate those who actually cared from those who were just pretending or felt obligated to. You learned what it means to be there for someone, how there’s a felt difference in someone who’s sitting next to you but not actually there versus someone who’s fully present, tuned into you and what the moment calls for.
We take turns, you see. Showing up. Giving and receiving. Holding out the hand and the lantern to someone in the darkness, letting them know I’m right here. Someday, it’ll be my turn, again, to reach for an outstretched hand. And then, a while later, I’ll reach back for yours.
Loss touches us all; grief teaches us all. This is how we keep going. This is why we keep going. Together.
We’re holding out our hands for you, and your loved one, when you’re ready.