Riding the waves of grief

Hi friends,

I last wrote you here two months ago, a hasty note on my way back to California after my mom’s sudden death. Last month, on the day this newsletter normally goes out, I was instead helping to host my mom’s memorial service. Today I find myself back in the office, looking out the window at blue skies and trees bursting into life, with birds singing to welcome spring. I am back at work, but not back to full capacity, and definitely not “back to normal,” or back to who I was before my mom died. So this will not be a normal newsletter.

I am not usually short on words, but I find it really hard to put my current thoughts and experiences navigating grief and my profession into words. But here goes.

Honestly right now, I don’t care about climate change. It feels irrelevant, distant, and impersonal, and I am focused on my immediate experiences. Right after my mom died, my focus shrunk to an almost unbelievably tiny pinprick. I could not conceive of any future, could not make decisions or plans beyond the immediate moment. Drink this mug of coffee Simon placed in front of me. Go for a walk because the sun is shining.

One afternoon, I asked my dad what he’d like for dinner that night. He replied, “I don’t know, it’s too far away.” That perfectly summed up how I was feeling. It took my complete and full bandwidth just to get through the current moment, every single moment.

Over time my focus and attention span has gradually expanded, so I am now able to make plans for the coming weekend, and to look forward to good things in the future: getting our sailboat ready for our first full season on the water; planting seeds in the garden and looking forward to harvesting carrots in 16 weeks.

But I still cannot really muster the energy to care about the world at large. I have completely avoided the news until now. I have no idea what is going on in all the corners of the world that are not currently inhabited by me or my family. I have deleted social media from my phone, and barely logged in on my computer. I just don’t have the spoons.

It is surprising to me how little I feel bothered by my inability to do more right now. A huge and important part of my life and my identity has been poured into caring about the world. My passion for abstract ideals like Nature and Fairness, and my desire to protect people and places I love, has fueled me to fight climate change. This passion has felt like not just a job or a career but a calling. It propelled me between Madison, Stanford, Sonoma, Davis, and Sweden. It inspired me to study the changes to the Earth that climate change was causing, and to become more and more involved in speaking and writing about these in a way I hoped would motivate others to care, and to help do the work necessary to protect what they loved. But right now, it is too hard.

Part of me wonders if this inward focus is how it’s always been for “everyone” else. That the tiny details of my own life feels so much more important and real to me than anything of global and lifetime-spanning significance, but doesn’t feel like it’s happening right this very minute, to me [reader, I’m talking about climate change]. It feels selfish and fabulous.

I’ve reflected on my privilege. Until now, I’ve had the bandwidth to focus so much on taking care of the wider world because my family and I were already so well taken care of. We never had to worry about basic needs like food and water and shelter (except when my family was evacuated during the wildfires and worried their homes would burn down). I’ve largely enjoyed very good health, though that’s something I’m not taking for granted right now. I’ve had far more than my fair share of luxuries.

I have learned so much in these last two months. Most of all, this time has been incredibly humbling. I can feel, really viscerally feel, how small I am. Usually I have the feeling that I have agency in the world to exert my will. I try to make a difference, of course in a direction that I think is right and good. But right now I don’t feel like that.

As I texted a friend, “I’m practicing sitting with many feelings. One takeaway I’ve felt since my mom died is that the idea of me as the agent in charge of my life is an illusion and I am a tiny leaf borne by much bigger tides of the universe. Surrender is a new thing for me but it’s been feeling positive, relieving rather than disempowering. Apparently growth happens from challenge who knew lol.”

I know I am just at the very beginning of navigating the unmapped territory of grief. I know that no feeling is final, and how I feel tomorrow or next week or month or year may be entirely different than how I’m feeling today. In a few weeks I may regret or not recognize these words. Ordinary Time seems plodding and unpunctuated, but my sense right now in Grief Time is that things can and will change dramatically, in ways that are so impossible to predict I’m not even trying.

Simon called my mom’s death a “seismic shift,” which feels right. It’s going to take time to see where the continents align, and I who am so used to striving and doing am for once just letting myself be carried by the waves and see where things settle. I’ve heard the advice not to make any big life decisions for a year after the death of someone close to you. It’s probably wise.

Usually I am someone who wants to help others. I’m not used to being the one who needs help. But I know we will all have our turns on both sides, and I’m truly grateful for how much love and support I’m surrounded by— my family and friends and neighbors, resources for therapy and health care, a workplace with bereavement leave and supportive colleagues, the kindness of strangers. I’m really glad I’ve shared with people that my mom died. It has opened doors for meaningful connections and conversations that I never expected.

I was struck the other day by the raw honesty of the others in my group grief therapy. There are so many people carrying such hard and heavy losses, people I might be passing in the street or sitting next to on the bus. You really never know what someone else is going through from the outside. Everyone is or will be grieving the loss of someone they love deeply. It is a huge connection to share at a time that can feel isolating and lonely. It makes me want to treat others more tenderly, with more patience.

What does all this have to do with a newsletter on climate action? I guess it’s to give you all an update, that right now I’m working on finding a new way forward. I don’t have a new dose of facts, feelings, and action for you this month. I honestly don’t know when I will. But in case it helps others, I wanted to share where I’m at. I haven’t managed to read all your messages yet, but I will, and I’ve been deeply touched and overwhelmed by the kindness and support in the ones I’ve managed to open. Thank you.

This month, it isn’t my month to push for climate action. Maybe you have the bandwidth right now to pick up the baton? If you do, maybe it’s time to flex more of your top 5 Climate Superpowers, or build community and find your climate peeps. If you don’t, please take care of yourself and each other. Let’s see where the river is taking us.

xo

Kim

P.S. Some podcasts that helped me. I hope they might help you or someone you know.

• “What to Say to Grieving Friends and Family,” from David Kessler’s podcast Healing. (TLDL: there are no magic words. Just show up and be present and willing to listen, witness, and validate difficult emotions.)

• “The Science & Process of Healing from Grief,” Huberman Lab podcast. The most helpful part for me drew from Mary-Frances O’Connor’s work on the neuroscience of grief (starts at 23:15).

• “What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully,” Secular Buddhism podcast, interview with Frank Ostaseski, and his book “The Five Invitations.”

• “Terrible, Thanks for Asking,” Nora McInerny’s podcast “that makes space for how it really feels to through the hard things in life.”

• “All There Is,” Anderson Cooper’s incredibly vulnerable and brave and beautiful podcast about losing his dad to illness, his brother to suicide, and his mom to old age.