Ask anyone who has lost someone they love and you'll probably find it's been the hardest thing they've ever faced.
Ask me, here, today, as we approach the 2 year anniversary of my Mum's sudden illness and death 8 days later, and I'll tell you I can't do anything about the visceral response I have when I allow my memory to go to the way she stroked my curls in her last hours, or the tear I remember on her cheek that I willed to be not there at all.
It's like my insides turn to dust, and drain out down through my body and out through my feet.
The sobbing comes from deep within my chest, up through my chest like a water feature, and then out through my eyes as tears.
My crying is in waves, and has a voice. It isn't pretty.
That's what research suggests too - with Brené Brown finding through her fifteen years research into human experience and emotion.
"Grief is perhaps the emotion we fear the most. As individuals, we are afraid of the darkness grief brings.
As a society, we have pathologised it and turned it into something to cure or get over.
Owning our stories of heartbreak is a tremendous challenge when we live in a culture that tells us to deny our grief".
As all well-trained coaches know, we've got to feel what we're feeling, so I tried today 'rumbling' with my grief, alongside the Rising Strong process that Brené talks about in her book of the same name.
She describes three parts of grief, and I'm exploring them here.
You know that feeling you get when you think you have lost your phone, and the relief when you find it? That's what I think of when I think of loss. Every time I remember my Mum isn't anywhere that I can physically touch or speak to her, I get the rush of her loss all over again.
The main thing I feel I lost is the relationship with my Mum.
It doesn't matter how many times I'm told she's still with me in spirit, or in my heart, and no matter how much I agree with that, she isn't here in person, and that's the thing that causes me the pain of loss.
I could choose a different perspective, but the feeling is still there.
It's too big to shift away from the fact that she isn't here any more, in physical form. I can't deny I feel that, if I want to move through it. The pain of that story will define me, if I don't own it.
I was on a Skype call with a friend this morning, already planned before I knew how I would be feeling, and as I started the call I explained my puffy eyes and snotty disposition. It resonated with her so strongly that in the first 60 seconds of the call we were both snotty messes, crying and laughing with the sadness and shared humanity of having lost our Mums.
'it's the longing, for me, that is hardest, I think, even after 14 years'.
It has the power to take our breath away, that involuntary yearning for a touch, or a look, or a smell, that defies rational thinking and that is really hard to explain. It doesn't make any sense, because you know you cannot touch what you have lost, you cannot regain it in the same way.
Yet, it exists.
We have to reorient ourselves to be in the world without the one we've lost. Who are we now, that the person has gone?
Who am I if I'm not a Daughter? Who am I if I am not a Mum nor a Daughter? Motherhood and Grief has been a frequent visitor and theme in my life.
How am I supposed to be now that I don't have those conversations we used to have, those private jokes and histories?
I realise through rumbling with my grief that if I want to experience the unconditional love I felt from my Mum, I've got to create that for myself.
If I want the magic she brought, it's mine, now, to make.
If I want to experience her generosity, I'd better get on and do something generous.
Only when we honour what we lost, do I believe we can heal.
Rumbling here has helped me realise there is a 'clean pain' of grief that feels to me to be whole, and cleansing, and healing. And when we feel it fully, when we welcome it as a natural and necessary response to loss, it doesn't get to drive us from an undercover place, and it passes in waves and eases.
I can choose not to suffer by thinking thoughts that feel bad or that go over painful memories, since there is only now, this moment, and in this moment, all is really well. We really are all in it together.
I teach around topics like this. If you are interested in attending an in-person workshop in Cumbria, or commissioning a Daring Way or Rising Strong intensive workshop for your organisation, please contact me.