Episode 51 - When Life Changes, - Don't Miss What Is New by Holding On to the Past

Podcast 51: When Life Changes, But Nothing Is Wrong

Learning to grieve what was without missing what is

There is a very deep kind of grief that doesn't always have a clear name.

It isn't necessarily grief because something terrible happened.

No one died.

No one necessarily left.

Nothing may have gone terribly wrong.

Life has simply changed.

And sometimes, that's enough to make us deeply sad.

As we get older, our bodies change. Things we once loved to do may become harder, slower, or simply less appealing. Maybe we don't have the energy we once had. Maybe our knees don't cooperate. Maybe we don't want to travel the way we used to.

And then there are the people we love.

They change, too.

Our children grow up. Their lives become full. Their needs change. Our spouse may have different interests or less energy. Friends move, become less available, or simply enter different seasons of life.

And sometimes we find ourselves quietly thinking:

"I miss the way things used to be."

I think we need to talk about that kind of grief.

Because when nothing is technically wrong, we can feel almost guilty for being sad.

We tell ourselves,

"I should be grateful."

"I should be happy."

"Other people have much bigger problems."

And so we don't give the sadness a name.

But I think there is freedom in recognizing:

This is grief.

Sometimes it's grief over a season.

I do love all the seasons. And living here in Texas, we all welcome those cool, crisp, lower temperatures of fall.

But I find that I have to fight a little sadness when the seasons change.

Why?

Because I don't do well in cold weather.

Yes, I like all the coziness of winter—hot chocolate, warm fires, cozy blankets.

But for whatever reason, I am a lover of the warmer months, when everything is green.

And when that season begins to change, I can feel a little sadness.

It's a small example, but it reminds me that we can grieve even beautiful changes.

A season changes.

A capability changes.

A relationship changes.

And we can grieve.

We can even grieve a version of ourselves that no longer exists.

And when we take a moment to acknowledge those feelings, that doesn't mean we're ungrateful.

It means we're being honest.

The first step is allowing yourself to say, "I miss that."

Maybe you used to take long walks with someone you love, and now they don't want to.

You can say:

"I miss doing that together."

Maybe your children used to need you in a way they don't anymore.

You can say:

"I miss that season."

And I am beginning to realize that one of the hardest things is when our body doesn't allow us to do something that once brought us great joy.

Actually saying,

"I miss being able to do that,"

is a very healthy thing to do.

We don't have to immediately turn the loss into a lesson.

Sometimes we simply need to acknowledge it.

I miss it.

And that's okay.

But there is an important place where grief can begin to become something heavier.

And that's when we take the change that is happening and make it mean something about us.

What do I mean by that?

The loss is one thing. The story we attach to it is another.

Someone doesn't want to do something with us anymore.

That's the fact.

But our mind can quickly turn that into:

"They don't want to spend time with me."

And then:

"Maybe I'm not important to them anymore."

We start these little stories.

And this takes the original loss and turns it into a wound to our identity.

That is when we need to pause.

We need to ask:

"What actually happened—and what am I making it mean?"

An easy example is when a spouse is unable to fulfill an activity that we once shared and loved together.

Now, when they show very little interest—or even avoid situations—we can feel like it has something to do with us personally.

And this is where I want you to really listen up.

The fact that their capacity has changed does not mean that their love is changing.

Someone's interests can change without our worth changing.

Someone's life can become different without us becoming less important.

That distinction can bring enormous peace.

Because we don't want to bury our sadness and deny the loss.

But we absolutely want to:

stop dwelling on something and adding unnecessary pain to it.

We also have to stop asking people to remain who they once were.

This may be one of the hardest parts of growing older.

We love people through many versions of themselves.

And sometimes we keep reaching for the version we knew before, rather than acknowledging that there has been a change in their energy level, availability, interests, or desires.

Truly loving someone doesn't mean holding them responsible for remaining familiar.

We can say:

"I miss who we were."

without saying:

"You need to become that person again."

That is the difference between grieving a change and fighting the change.

And putting so much energy into fighting something we cannot control is exhausting.

That goes for anything we cannot control—especially people.

When we desire something from someone that they are unable or unwilling to give, it can cost us our own happiness.

We can find ourselves choosing to stay in a state of sadness and grief because of what we believe their response means.

Think about that. Why do we do that?

Well, because we place a meaning—a story—on what is happening or not happening.

And that story is usually saying something about us.

"I'm not important."

"I'm not wanted."

"I'm being rejected."

"I'm alone."

And once we believe that story, we begin to protect ourselves.

We pull back.

I know this one personally.

When I feel rejected, my instinct can be to pull away.

And pulling away can feel like protection.

If I don't reach out, if I don't ask, if I don't show that I care, then I don't have to risk feeling rejected again.

But there is a problem with that.

We can protect ourselves from rejection by creating the isolation we are afraid of.

And then something else can happen.

The person we love may notice that we're hurting and try to make us feel better.

They may reach toward us.

They may even agree to do something with us.

And instead of simply receiving that love, we may think:

"Now I'm making them do something they wouldn't have done."

"They wouldn't really want to do this if I hadn't gotten upset."

And now we're questioning the very connection we wanted.

But what if we allowed another possibility?

What if we let another person own their choice?

If they choose to comfort us, we don't have to decide that their comfort isn't genuine.

If they choose to spend time with us, we don't have to decide that they are only doing it because we made them feel guilty.

We can simply receive what is being offered.

We can say:

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

And let that moment be what it is.

Because there is a difference between communicating what matters to us and making someone responsible for making us okay.

We can say:

"I wish you wanted this too."

And then we can let them be themselves.

I can give someone freedom without experiencing their freedom as rejection.

That's a very different kind of love.

And perhaps most importantly:

I don't have to withdraw in order to protect my heart.

I can stay soft.

I can be disappointed without making it mean that I am unwanted.

I can allow someone to have different desires without deciding that those desires are a rejection of me.

And I can remain connected to myself even when someone doesn't want what I want.

That is not isolation.

That is connection with room to breathe.

So what do we do with the grief?

We don't have to get rid of it immediately.

First, we feel it.

Then we begin to understand it.

And eventually, we begin to release the expectations attached to it.

One of the most freeing things we can say is:

"I can miss this without needing it back."

Or, if it has to do with the actions of another person:

"I trust God and His timing."

Think about that.

I can miss the way we used to spend time together...

without requiring you to do it again.

I can miss what my body used to be able to do...

without hating the body I have today.

I can miss a season of motherhood...

without believing my life is less meaningful now.

I can love what was without choosing to park myself in a puddle of sadness and choose to live there.

I think it is important to ask a different question.

Instead of:

"How do I get back what I lost?"

I prefer to ask myself a deeper question:

"What did that—meaning the thing that I am missing—give me?"

Maybe the activity you miss gave you companionship.

Maybe it gave you adventure.

Maybe it gave you creativity.

Maybe it made you feel alive.

Maybe it made you feel chosen.

Maybe it gave you beauty.

A question like this helps us realize that sometimes we're not actually longing for the activity.

We're longing for what the activity represented.

And if we understand that, we can begin looking for new ways to experience those things.

Maybe going hiking isn't possible anymore.

But being out in nature—feeling nature and enjoying its beauty—is still possible.

Perhaps an activity that you enjoyed with your spouse is no longer possible because of physical aging, and you find yourself missing what once was.

It could be that even though the activity was pleasant, what you're actually missing is the connection that it brought—the connection between you and your spouse.

Yet that connection can be maintained through other ways so that you continue to stay close.

The activity may change, but the deeper need doesn't necessarily have to disappear.

The form can change without the deeper desire for connection, beauty, adventure, creativity, or companionship disappearing with it.

This is where we begin to write a new story.

Not a fake positive story.

Not:

"Everything is wonderful!"

Because sometimes it isn't.

A more honest story might be:

"This is different, and different doesn't have to mean empty."

Or:

"I don't have to get my old life back to have a meaningful life now."

Or:

"I am not being asked to replace what I lost. I am being invited to discover what comes next."

I love that word:

discover.

Because it leaves room for possibility.

We don't have to know yet what the next season looks like.

We just have to become willing to find out.

And this is where we have to involve the body.

Because grief isn't just a thought.

We carry it.

We feel it in our chest.

Our shoulders tighten.

Our stomach knots.

We become restless.

We wake up thinking about it.

And sometimes thinking our way out of sadness isn't enough.

Our bodies need new experiences.

Step outside.

Feel the sunshine.

Make something.

Take a walk.

Listen to music.

Call someone.

Notice something beautiful.

Do one small thing that creates movement, curiosity, connection, or joy.

We're not pretending the grief isn't there.

We're giving our body new evidence:

"Life is still happening."

I can be sad...

and still laugh.

I can miss someone...

and still feel connected.

I can experience loss...

and still create something beautiful.

I can have an ache in my heart...

and still have a wonderful afternoon.

So when the wave of sadness comes, here's a simple practice.

Feel.

"This is sadness. I miss something."

Understand.

"What am I really missing? What did that experience give me?"

Release.

"I cannot make the past come back. I don't have to keep asking it to."

Reframe.

"What else could this mean? What is actually true?"

And then:

Re-engage.

Do something that brings you back into your life.

Not something huge.

Just something real.

Because the goal isn't to make the sadness disappear.

The goal is to make the sadness smaller than the life around it.

At first, grief can fill the entire room.

But then you notice the sunlight.

You make something.

You laugh.

You have a conversation.

You anticipate tomorrow.

And eventually you realize:

The grief is still here, but it isn't everything.

And maybe this is one of the gifts of growing older.

We learn that life is made up of many little goodbyes.

Some things end because our bodies change.

Some things end because other people change.

Some things end because seasons end.

And we don't have to pretend those endings don't hurt.

But we also don't have to make every ending a prediction about the future.

We can grieve what was.

We can release what we cannot control.

We can stop asking people to be who they once were.

And we can become curious about who we are becoming.

Because perhaps the new story isn't:

"I didn't lose anything."

We did.

We lost things we loved.

The new story is:

"I lost something I deeply loved, and I am learning that loss does not mean the end of love, connection, purpose, beauty, or joy."

Those things can take new forms.

And maybe that's what this season of life is asking of us.

Not to stop loving the past.

Not to stop missing what was.

But to loosen our grip on the form life used to take...

and open our hands to receive what life can still become.

I can honor who I was without requiring myself to remain her.

I can honor who you were without requiring you to remain that person.

I can give you freedom without experiencing your freedom as rejection.

I don't have to withdraw in order to protect my heart.

I can grieve what was without missing what is.

And perhaps, most importantly:

I can let myself be sad—and still choose to live.

Because there is still life here.

There is still love here.

There is still beauty here.

There is still something waiting to be discovered.

And I don't have to know what it is yet.