Adam Annable, M.Sc, CT, CFSP

I had to lean firmly into my grief until I didn’t need to anymore. I still believed that I deserved to feel the way that I was feeling. I still believed that I needed my grief in order to recognize myself. I needed to have him, so that I could know me.

"How am I supposed to help guide this family through a circumstance that I just barely made it through myself when I was younger?"

"How am I supposed to help guide this family through a circumstance that I just barely made it through myself when I was younger?"

I always say, "I'm sorry for your loss" to my families with good intentions. But, sometimes, I feel like I’m not being completely honest with them. It isn’t because I’m not sorry for their losses, it’s because that isn’t really the phrase that I should be saying to them. In my mind, I mean to be saying, “I’m sorry that I don’t have experience enough in my own life to understand your pain, and I’m sorry that I can’t be more for you in your grief.”

"My grief was insidious. He looked like me, and spoke in the tone of my voice. He knew my inflections, and influenced my facial expressions. He was more comfortable in my skin than I had ever dared to be. My grief appeared meek, but he stood firmly atop the crown of my heart. Always. But, I didn’t try to escape him. I believed that I needed to hold onto my grief, because I loved the memory of what gave him to me. I truly loved the person who left the charred, blistering imprint on my chest."

I had to lean firmly into my grief until I didn’t need to anymore. I still believed that I deserved to feel the way that I was feeling. I still believed that I needed my grief in order to recognize myself. I needed to have him, so that I could know me.