Autumn's Return
On cycles of grief, seasonal memory, and holding our body's stories with compassion.
They say the body remembers what the mind does not. I think that’s why I’ve started thinking about all I have lost again—at this time just last year, I was so shattered, I wasn’t sure how I would even begin to pick up the pieces.
It feels dramatic to say that. After all, my life was so full of good things too. A new home, a beautiful family. Five thriving children. A wonderful loving husband. All my basic needs met.
But the good in my life didn’t erase the grief. What I had, did not erase what I had lost—and pretending it should have only piled shame on top of my already broken heart.
I know many of my birth-trauma mamas out there have felt the same—though they mean well, many people act like the only thing that matters in the whole scenario is that your baby (or babies in my case) are okay. And of course I’m so glad my babies were/are okay. But that doesn’t take away the trauma or the grief of all that could have/should have been, and wasn’t.
This is just an example.
The same could be said for my childhood. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, in a world full of darkness, it’s easy for people to say (or imply) “at leasts” about my story. I even sometimes get sucked into doing this to myself. And of course, there are so many elements for which I am incredibly grateful. I am grateful that I had the courage to tell my parents. I’m grateful that they believed me. I’m grateful they did what was right and got me the hell out of that situation without delay. And I’m grateful that when our church wanted to gaslight us, and didn’t want us to report, and wanted us to “keep the circle small,” that my parents reported anyway, that we left that place, and that they put me in therapy.
But…
That doesn’t take away what I lost. Just because it could have been worse doesn’t mean that what happened was okay. I’m saying this to you as well, dear reader.
I cannot tell you the number of times I have shared my story with a friend, for them to ever after feel the need to say, “of course it’s nothing compared to what happened to you.” And to that I say, pain is pain. Don’t feel the need to minimize, diminish, or shove under the rug something awful that happened to you just because it “could have been worse,” or because there are elements surrounding the events for which you are grateful. (eg. My babies and I survived. My parents believed me.)
We’ve all been through some crazy sh*t—but I don’t think we can even begin to hunt for the beauty amongst the weeds and compost of life, if we aren’t willing to look at the pile of compost to begin with. Healing begins when you take an honest look at everything that has happened to you, and you dare to say, “Yeah…that sucked. That was not okay. I was/am wounded by that.”
Which sometimes can feel infinitely scarier than just shoving it under the rug and gaslighting yourself forever. Because once you start to acknowledge the wound it may seem like it hurts a lot more for awhile. But it’s not forever. There is healing on the other side of this.
Yesterday I sat in the sun next to the waterfall with my therapist, and got the most wonderful October sunburn on the right side of my face. And both of us couldn’t help but remember the day that I first showed up at her door, dissociated beyond belief. It was about this time last year, but I remember the weather was warm enough for us to sit in the exact white wicker patio chairs by her small pond with the waterfall. (I highly recommend finding a therapist with a pond and waterfall.) During that first hour together, she helped me come a little bit back to myself in a way I hadn’t been able to since Jordan was born.
Yesterday she said to me,“I’m just so struck right now by this vibrant person in front of me,” she said. “You seem so good today. So full of life.”
And with a smile I answered, “I am.”
We spoke about that first day nearly a year ago, and how far I have come since then—full of gratitude for how far I’ve come, but knowing my work isn’t yet done. I’m still healing. I still have more work to do so that I can more fully walk into all that I know God has for me. But I no longer feel defeated or daunted by the prospect. This autumn, as the days shorten and we move towards the winter months which are often some of the hardest for me, instead of fear, I feel full of hope.
Our bodies remember—but their remembered grief isn’t a sentence to mourn forever. It’s an invitation to honor all that we have experienced—to not shove it under the rug of minimizing or forgetfulness, and to heal. Every time a season triggers a memory, I can choose to shove it away, or hold it tenderly and say; “yes. That was painful. But I was not alone. And I am not alone now either.”
I’m not going to say I’m over it. Any of it. Not the abuse of my childhood. Not the things that happened to me last year behind operating room doors. Not the devastation that split our hearts like lightning at the revelation of a deeply trusted friend’s betrayal. Not the grief of the ways my church growing up failed to hold in holy tension the need to care for both the victim and perpetrator.
All of these things fuel an anger in me. A thirst for justice. They make me want to raise my voice. To speak loudly about what I have seen and what I have learned and what I know. It was the ever encouraging K.J. Ramsey who first showed me that our anger can be a fuel to move us toward pursuing justice—righteousness. The making things right. Something I had always been taught to demonize in a church culture deeply uncomfortable with anger and any of the other “negative” emotions—now fuels the words I pen today.
Because behind my anger, is a deep, deep love.
Reader, if Autumn’s return and the darkening days ahead is bringing up a grief in you, might I invite you to honor that grief instead of shoving it away? Despite all that you are grateful for—I know you have lost so very much.
And if there are wrongs about which you’ve never dared to speak—then I hope you find a safe person in your life to share it with, no matter where you are tempted to think your trauma rates on the “pain scale.” Your pain matters. Your story matters. And as my friend K.J. Ramsey is always saying, it’s time to find a witness who will hold that pain tenderly, so you can feel in your body this October, the truth that you are not alone. (If you need some help doing this, might I recommend K.J. Ramsey’s latest book The Lord is my Courage: Stepping through the Shadows of Fear Toward the Voice of Love. ) As always, I cannot recommend the presence of a good therapist enough. Mine has been an absolute gift to me.
And in case you needed to hear someone say this today—I’m praying for you dearest readers. Every one of you is so precious in God’s sight—and for what it’s worth, you are precious to me too. I hope today you feel your own Beloved-ness just a little bit more than you have before.
Thank you, I’m sorry for your pain and grief. Thank you for sharing. I am weary. I have someone. She has been helpful. For reasons too long, I am being forced to change. Change is sometimes an ugly word and I hate it. I am weary. I am grateful for your words. Susan