For those of us mourning a loved one, every year brings round a “sad-anniversary” – it could be the day they died, the day of their funeral or memorial service, perhaps even a holiday like Mother’s Day when they can become the only things we think about. It’s funny those days in the year that come with the baggage of the dead.
At a NOON Circle not so long ago, one Queenager admitted tearfully that it was exactly 6 years to the day that her husband had died. (I was so honoured and proud she had decided to spend that day with us.) A discussion arose around what to do with those sad-anniversaries. How they creep up on us, need containing with love and support and rituals.
February 11th is one of those days for me. It’s a day that I remember Peter, my stepfather, who is responsible for my love of the mountains. He would generously take us all to the French alps whenever he could.
- Eleanor’s story: ‘My week of final goodbyes’
- Catherine Mayer on the physicality of grief
- ‘Understanding my father after his death’
It is also the day that my best friend died when we were both 17. Mat was diabetic – he went to sleep and never woke up. He was like another brother, the son of my mum’s best friend. We grew up together, born only a couple of months apart; put to sleep in the same cot, fed the same mush. We were close as teens, I thought we would go to university together. And then he died before we could get there.
I couldn’t believe it, still can’t. Still feel a horrible hole where he should be. It’s a hole that expands rather than shrinks with time. All those things he was never a part of: weddings, my children being born. It is more than 35 years since he died, but I still miss him. Particularly on that day. We heard he had died on my stepfather’s birthday. And now both are dead. So February 11th is a sad day of remembering.
A silver lining from these sad days
None of us get to midlife unscathed – over half of us have experienced at least 5 of death, divorce, bereavement, redundancy, abuse, illness, caring for elderly parents etc. But perhaps the silver lining is that the more that we shed the happier we end up.
One of the key findings of the research we did was that the more Queenagers had been through, the happier they became in midlife. They were living that old truism that in the space that loss leaves, something new can grow.
That is all very well but it doesn’t assuage the pain of the loss, particularly on those anniversary days: birthdays, death days, wedding anniversaries. Those can be the moments when we miss them most. Where the lost feels most real and raw even decades later.
How do we move forward?
What I see at NOON – on our trips and retreat, in so many of our Circles – is women moving on, even as they grieve. Choosing life, and fun and a new tribe and new activities. Not living in the past but going forward, even with their pain.
We often don’t feel like doing it.
But even just experiencing something new, like moving into a new environment, discovering a new tribe, trying out a new skill, fires up new brain pathways. It can be something new emotionally, intellectually, physically.
The experience and muscle memory and the triumph of conquering something new, even if we are scared, ignites a broader possibility of other newness. It creates a kind of map of possibility towards manifesting other innovations in our lives. That could mean turning up to a NOON walk, attending a NOON Circle for the first time to tell our truth, visiting someplace new, tackling a new skill (NOON’s Jennifer is trying to learn something called punch needle), or something completely different.
If we can take these steps – then what else can we also do that we haven’t done before?
Perhaps even learn to celebrate our sad-anniversaries with joy.
Tell us how you cope with sad-anniversaries and move on.
