Where to start?

This week marks six months since the end.

Sunday morning at 6:34a central time will be six months since I sat next to Dad as he took his very last inhale. His last long, slow, inaudible exhale. Twenty-two…27…30, 31, 32…35…37, 38, 39, 40…

Since counting the seconds, I quit my job, have absorbed a barrage of emotions and words from a few family members about how I should be/should have been acting/processing/grieving, traveled to Mexico with my husband, extended myself into vulnerable situations for the hopeful long term benefit of my children, try to show up everyday to what I need to do and try to also do some things I want to do, have been practicing yoga multiple times a week and meditated a few times, and just now am trying to write. There’s so much to process. To grieve.

A small urn of Dad’s ashes is now at my house. It was weird when I opened the vessel so we could look at the contents, and then some spilled out on the desk. We all giggled, and my son casually said, “Hi, Grandpa.”

The last phone call with one of my clients was divine –  in the midst of discussing life and choices and death, she said, “Heather, mourning is a singular process.” These words were exactly what I needed in that moment, and I have gone back to them numerous times in the last few months. No one’s opinion of my process is important. No one’s input is needed or sought.

In the almost three months since leaving my job, I have worked hard to find space to think and process and be fully present with my family, which has been harder and more fruitful than I expected. It has taken most of these weeks to stop thinking that I was supposed to be doing something else in the midst of my newly flexible days, that I’d dropped a ball or forgotten something.

It is hard to slow down, to sit still. My intention is to just stop. Be. Get to a place where I can feel again – feel anything.

I told a friend today that I think I’m getting close to feeling things again – I am sensing light, so I know I’m facing an optimal direction, and I will keep taking one step at a time toward the light until I have walked through it.