JLAP: In my ‘grief era’: Doing the ‘heart work’ of grief

It’s impossible for me to forget June 26, 2003, a day that marks more than a cruel summer. The sun was shining and the sky was calm, but there was a storm in my heart. I knew all too well something was wrong. I can’t explain how I knew that my brother was gone. Something cut the invisible string that connected us. Then the phone call came. No, I wasn’t ready for it. It was like death by a thousand cuts to learn my brother died by suicide at 18. It was unexpected. There were no warning signs. There was no chance to say goodbye. Everything has changed.

My life can be divided into two parts: the short years with my brother, and the life I’ve lived in his absence. I didn’t choose grief; it chose me. At some point, grief will choose you too — be it personal loss of a loved one, a pet, a relationship, a job, a dream or the many ways humans experience loss, or it will find you helping someone through those life changes. Even if your loss is not the same, what we learn about grief is applicable to all ways it touches us. Most powerful lessons about grief don’t come from textbooks or degrees; they come from crawling through pain to understand that the only way out is through. I could talk about science or medical knowledge of grief — those are elements driven by our minds. But grief work is “heart work.” As a lifetime musician, I find matters of the heart are best described by lyricists, songwriters and the tortured poets’ department. Grief’s timetable is not “swift.” It’s an era.

Evermore (Swift/Bowery/Vernon 2020)

I rewind the tape but all it does is pause

On the very moment all was lost. …

And I couldn’t be sure, I had a feeling so peculiar

That this pain would be for evermore.

Grief steals your midnights: I was on the phone with my mom when she found my brother. What I heard stays with me. Traumatic experiences leave us haunted, especially early on because they loop on repeat. It happened when I was awake and when I was asleep. Details of the trauma became ingrained. I told the story of the events repeatedly to anyone who would listen. Some people heard it hundreds of times. It took a long time to realize I wasn’t doing it on purpose, and there wasn’t anything wrong with me. It was my brain’s way of telling my heart what I didn’t want to believe. It’s important to show yourself a state of grace in processing details of loss, and for those supporting you to do the same. There will come a day when you actively shift intrusive thoughts to positive memories because details of how someone passed will never define how they lived.

Tied Together With a Smile (Swift/Rose 2006)

Hold on, baby, you’re losing it.

The water’s high, you’re jumpin’ into it

And letting go, and no one knows

That you cry, but you don’t tell anyone …

And you’re tied together with a smile, but your comin’ undone.

Treacherous days: Shortly after loss, there are many decisions — who to call, what arrangements to make, which tasks to take and delegate, how to greet people who stop by and what ritualistic events happen. This looks different for everyone. To me, it was a whirlwind. I was exhausted, but I put on a brave face and compartmentalized my emotions to deliver remarks at my brother’s service. I was an entertainer, so I could do this, right? There was so much shock and activity during these days that grief wouldn’t settle in until much later. I was not fearless; I was one thread from coming undone.

Ronan (Swift/Thompson 2012)

When the blind hope turned to crying and screaming, “Why?”

Flowers pile up in the worst way,

No one knows what to say,

About a beautiful boy who died.

Acute stages: Days turned into months. It hits different when cards, flowers, casseroles and visits stop coming, which is when the griever needs someone the most. The silence was deafening. It’s a reality that life moves on for those around you, but for the griever it feels permanently on pause.

People struggle with knowing what to say. When the event is traumatic, it is worse. There are rumors and whispers. Many sentiments, while well intended, are not helpful. Some are even mean. The “at least” sentences that only minimize loss (“at least he’s free,” “at least you had the gift of having a sibling”). Or, “time heals all wounds,” and “they’re in a better place.” For me, even, “I’m sorry for your loss,” felt empty because many times it was attached to, “that must really be hard for your parents.” While true, it felt as if my loss was invisible. But people are not to blame; our society is grief insensitive. Our culture says when bereavement is over, we should get back to normal. Grief is awkward, and sometimes, we think it’s contagious. You can sit with me in my grief and not catch it, I promise.

What mattered most were the rare people who checked in long after everyone else went home. They didn’t have magic words. There was nothing to say to take away the loss. Grievers don’t need to be fixed. They aren’t broken; they need their loss to be witnessed (David Kessler). Those who met me in the trenches to hold my hand and sit in silence were oxygen.

This is me trying (Swift/Antonoff 2020)

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere

Fell behind all my classmates, and I ended up here

Pourin’ out my heart to stranger …

I just wanted you to know,

That this is me trying.

Early grief: Seasons changed and my friends went to college to explore their dreams. I didn’t. For a year I slept on the couch in the living room because I could hear my family from there if there was an emergency. And now I had anxiety about emergencies. Success was if I got up to shower, went outside, ate or made effort to show up where I needed to be. I was an absent friend. I was angry. I wasn’t living a purpose. I was just trying to survive, one day at a time. It was heavy and it was hard. Grief happens on the inside. I looked fine but everything hurt — physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

There was noise about “moving on,” but you don’t shake it off. We don’t tell people to “move on” from joy, so why do we do this to people surviving a loss? Walking, talking and breathing during early grief is courage. Give yourself credit, and give the grieving credit for showing up and trying. If you’re here, I see you — I was you — and if all you did was breathe today, that’s OK. We can falsely believe grief is fatal, but it isn’t. Keep acknowledging and leaning into the pain. You will get stronger every day.

Marjorie (Swift/Dessner 2020)

I should’ve asked you questions,

I should’ve asked you how to be,

Asked you to write it down for me,

Should’ve kept every grocery store receipt,

‘Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me.

Continued early grief: The first years after loss is still defined as early grief. (Kessler). With first rounds of holidays, birthdays and anniversaries, the loss deepens. We try to make sense of “why.” What signs did I miss? I was his sister — I was supposed to know what was going on. If I’d visited him like I planned, would he still be here? If one detail in the trajectory of events changed, would the outcome be different? No matter how many times you go over the would’ve, could’ve, should’ves, there is no satisfying “why” that explains loss. (Kessler). The living are burdened with self-blame and guilt, and this delays healing. While our minds attempt to convince us otherwise, these burdens are not what caused the loss. Pack them in a suitcase and set it down. They are not yours to carry.

As these years passed, I developed fear that I would forget my brother. I felt guilty for wanting to process my loss, because if my sadness disappeared, would he disappear? I held tightly to grief because I didn’t know what his death meant for the future of my life. I can tell you, I have never forgotten my brother; it’s not possible. He is with me in all that I do.

Breathe (Swift/Caillat 2008)

Cause it’s tragedy and it’ll only bring you down

Now I don’t know what to be without you around …

And I can’t breathe without you, but I have to.

Mature grief: I can’t tell you when it happened or how, but five years after my brother died, I walked into my first suicide survivors support group. I was terrified and immediately thought it was a mistake. But their stories sounded so much like mine. I breathed for the first time. It wasn’t comfortable, but I didn’t have to do it alone. I discovered I didn’t give permission for the loss I suffered, but I gave myself permission to heal from it. That’s what my brother would have wanted for me, and it’s what I wanted for myself. “Pain from loss is inevitable, but suffering is optional.” (Kessler). I kept going because I had to. I developed community around loss and learned I could begin again.

(Reprise) Evermore

And I was catching my breath

Floors of a cabin creaking under my step … .

I have spent 20 years walking in grief. I share it with you vulnerably and honestly, both the dark and light, hoping that something here may become a page in your survival guide or make you feel less alone. If so, then my brother’s life and my story have meaning. There is no one way to do grief, and there is no judgment in it.

Spoiler alert: I went back to school and became a lawyer and social worker so I could witness people’s stories and help them return from the dark places I’ve seen. I am still a singer of songs, a tortured poet and a Swiftie. I will carry grief for evermore because I loved my brother bigger than the whole sky. He will always be the teardrops on my guitar. You can’t eliminate grief; that is not the goal. You can learn to live with grief, as I do today, moving forward with more love and less pain.

And I couldn’t be sure, I had a feeling so peculiar. … This pain wouldn’t be forevermore.

JLAP is here to walk the journey of grief with you. Our grief and loss support group meets the fourth Thursday of every month at noon.•

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Ashley E. Hart, esq., L.S.W., is a committee member and volunteer for JLAP who serves the legal community with her faithful therapy dog, the Honorable K9 Judge. When she isn’t lawyering, she is singing, and you can always count on her to leave you with some lessons in a song. This piece is written in loving memory of Justin Dwight Hart. Opinions expressed are those of the author.