An Ocean, Observed

Grief is like the ocean.

It comes in waves. Sometimes you skip through the shallows with ease, hardly noticing the water that laps at your toes. You enjoy the deluded and delightful feeling of control.

It is brief.

The tide rolls in again. It takes you off guard, hitting you out of nowhere and pulling you under, swallowing you whole. You're tossed about, you don't know which way is up.

You're drowning. Drowning in your sorrow, in the oppressive weight of it. You can't breathe. You wonder if you will ever find solid ground again.

Will you ever feel the sun on your face again?

Then you remember someone told you once: "Don't fight it." You let yourself go limp, let the waters wash over you; let the grief have it's way with you.

Be still.

In the stillness of the inky darkness, you feel yourself begin to rise. You give in to the surging tide, the foam, the salt that burns your eyes and scratches your throat. You have let go of the illusion that you are in control.

Eventually, you float to the surface. Your feet find the sand, you crawl to the shallows, shaken, raw, forever changed.

Breathe in.

You did it, you survived. Your grief, though ever-present, no longer crushes you. You look up and feel the warmth of the sun on your face yet again.

Breathe out.