GRIEF DOESN’T HAVE A RHYTHM

Our bodies like rhythm and grief likes chaos. Although predictability can feel boring, there is something deeply comforting about knowing what to expect. You don’t have to be a dancer or musician to appreciate the steady 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 counts of a waltz or the upbeat 1, 2, 3, pause, 5, 6, 7, pause of a salsa song. What makes these patterns so comforting is that no matter how many times you get lost in the beat or step count, you can always find your way back to baseline because the rhythm is predictable. In a way, there is a sense that there is always a way back “home.”

Over the last several years, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about grief, interacting with it, understanding it, and misunderstanding it. One of the most unsettling aspects of grief is that it has no rhythm. No predictability. No comforting return to a recurring pattern. Grief is its own storm of unforeseeable beat counts.

An interesting paradox is that we often try to create a rhythm within grief by preparing for grief triggers. We anticipate our emotional reactions to high-emotion days, such as anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, and births. We put support structures in place in anticipation of the tidal wave we believe is sure to come. And then we wait. And wait. And wait some more. Where is the tidal wave? This very common grief experience can trigger its own emotional reaction: Should I not be affected by this day? Does this mean I am “over it”? Does this mean I don’t care about my loss? In our scramble to re-establish rhythm and control, we demand answers from ourselves. These answers are not easily found. In contrast, grief often sneaks in when our defenses are down, when we are living our lives and unaware of the grief ambush waiting for us in the next aisle of the grocery store or in some random shop.

I can recall one such experience many years ago. I was very early in my grief journey after losing my father. I was as spending most of my energy just trying to keep going. My mom and I decided to take a break from the unrelenting administrative responsibilities that follow a loss. The air was chilly and crisp. The sun was bright, and the sky was clear. For everyone else, it might have been considered an absolutely beautiful day in Juneau, Alaska. As we moved through our grief-laden haze, we wandered into a store selling souvenirs and figurines, much like the many others along the boardwalk we were exploring. We drifted through the store at our own pace, each in our own rhythm. As I looked at decorations and displays, I began to think that maybe this would be an okay day. I allowed myself to feel a sense of hope. Perhaps I had found a way to hold my grief without being overcome by it.

And then the ambush came.

It appeared in the form of a five-inch bear figurine. The bear had wings and was holding a baby bear, looking down at it, while the baby bear looked up toward the larger one. Normally, I would not have given this figurine a second thought. I am not particularly fond of bears, and under different circumstances, it would have meant nothing to me. But in that moment, wearing my grief like the tightest armor, this bear became my undoing. It represented different stages of life with my father. It began with a stuffed papa bear he gave me as a toddler, meant to serve as a protector in the night. And then there were the wings…symbolizing an unwelcome transition, a shift from tangible protection to something more ambiguous and spiritual.

Grief has no rhythm. No predictability. This is often what leads people to feel like they are “losing it.” As the mind tries to establish control, it is repeatedly defied by grief in all its unpredictable force.

So the question that often arises is this: If grief has no rhythm, how do I find my footing? The first step is to relinquish control of the rhythm. The more we fight against the natural waves of grief, the harder it becomes to build a new rhythm. In my role as a psychologist, one of the most common questions I am asked is: “How can I get back to who I was before the loss?” I often find that this is the wrong question because it assumes that returning to a previous version of ourselves is possible. A more helpful question might be: “Who can I become after this loss?”

Every stage of life calls for a new version of ourselves. If you are in the throes of grief, I want you to know that you will find your new footing. Allow yourself to create a new song and dance to a transformed rhythm.