Grief
I met a friend during this pandemic. Her name is Grief and I wasn’t ready for her when she came. I always thought Grief came to visit in the wake of death, but this wasn’t the case for me. At least not at first.
Grief came with a loss and it took me awhile to figure out who she was. She was in and around me and I couldn’t name her for so many days. I knew I was feeling something deeper than unhappiness and something larger than sadness, but it wasn’t until I found out her name that I could begin to navigate the pain.
My grief came through my work. You see, I’m a teacher and I started the school year on a team of 5 first grade teachers. We supported each other, collaborated, shared work, and reached out when we needed help. Each of us brought unique skills to the team that supported all of us. I met with each of my 24 first grade families that first week of school. “What do you need?” “What can I do to support you?” “What are your fears?” “What are your hopes and dreams for the year?” We bonded over the collective trauma that all of us shared in pandemic life. I was a mom too, working from home, and also navigating school and work and life blending together in murky, messy ways.
I loved those 24 kids and their families fiercely. I delivered desks and chairs to families that needed a better home set up for their basement schoolroom. I connected families with community resources that could provide full days of school support. As students turned in their work, I looked through and wrote or spoke comments back to them. When I noticed students were struggling to turn in assignments I never made assumptions. “What can I do?” “How can I help?” I stood outside the school to hand out packets of materials, and when they weren’t picked up I delivered them to houses. One student bounding out of her house in her gymnastics clothes, another racing out to catch a masked glimpse of her teacher in real life that she had only previously seen on Zoom.
And then they were gone.
On a Tuesday in January our superintendent declared, “We must open schools,” and “It must happen next week.” Our community COVID numbers were at their peak. They were well beyond what the state had declared safe for reopening schools. But the superintendent found small print and backdoors to prevent us from legally keeping schools closed. So the powers that be declared we would open the following Monday and set us to the task of figuring out a plan.
In three short days our teachers and administrators worked tirelessly to move heaven and earth to get schools to open with a hybrid model. Some teachers felt relief. They wanted to see students again. Other teachers, myself included, felt pressing anxiety. Vaccinations were barely under way. It didn’t feel safe. The rushed timeline meant that shortcuts would be made to safety measures. The COVID numbers were dangerously high. Some of those teachers were new and had no option but to do what they were told. They organized their classrooms through tears, as they spaced out desks six feet apart from each other. I had the seniority to request to stay remote and, facing crushing anxiety about safety and numbers, said I would opt to take a leave of absence if a remote position wasn’t available. About 10-20% of our staff either stayed remote or went on leave. That Friday, at 10:30 a.m., I was told I would be teaching first grade across two schools. “Whew,” I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I would be keeping my own students that opted to stay remote.
At 3:30 p.m. that afternoon, however, everything changed. Teaching across two schools had not been approved. Instead, I would be teaching a split grade level group of third and fourth grade students. In an instant, my families were gone. My team was gone. Everything was gone. It was too late in the day to say goodbye to the families before my account was switched to my new group of students. In a weekend, I had to prepare to teach new faces on zoom, new developmental stages, and new academic content.
That’s when I met Grief. She first showed up in the tears after my zoom calls. I would prepare and teach and smile and joke with my students, and then I would log off and cry. “What are these feelings I’m having?” I would wonder. “You sound so happy when you’re teaching,” my husband would say. “But I’m not happy.” I would respond. I was confused. I had big feelings and I couldn’t name them.
It was my therapist that first clued me in that the name of my new friend was Grief. My therapist introduced me to the concept that a loss doesn’t have to involve death for Grief to arrive. As soon as she named her, I knew Grief had come. I knew that these feelings, deeper than sadness, were Grief. And I started to see what I had lost. Those beautiful faces. Those assignments completed with care. That collaborative team that communicated so well with one another.
Grief brought a very unwelcome enemy with her. This enemy’s name was Shame. Shame was first forced onto me in an email from a colleague that pleaded with me to go back to the building, despite my fears. “Your absence will have a massive impact on your students and the feeling of "coming home" that they are seeking when they return for hybrid,” she wrote. “Our building and office will be thrown into a logistical nightmare as they search for a replacement for you within a matter of a few short days, further destabilizing our students' foundations.” She implied that so many things would be my fault. She gave me no permission to have feelings.
I fell apart reading these words. Did I invite Grief myself? And then I remembered the crushing anxiety. I remembered the rushed timeline and the high COVID numbers and the circles of control that I had drawn out in order to survive. I couldn’t control the decisions made by the powers that be. But I could control how I responded to them. The anxiety would have eaten me alive. It wouldn’t have been healthy for me to teach in person, and it wouldn’t have been healthy for students either. Making the decision to request a remote position was a decision that I made not just for me, but for the kids too.
It was a dark five months, but I made it through the rest of the school year. I cried on the floor. I cried on the phone. I cried to my principal and I cried in my neighbor’s car. I cried when I was falling asleep and sometimes I cried when I woke up. I cried from Grief and I cried from Shame and I cried because I didn’t know what to do with all the feelings. At the end of the school year, I requested a leave of absence. I got a phone call from Human Resources.
“You need to fill out a form,” she said. “You need to declare why you’re leaving.”
“Mental health.” I responded.
She paused, and replied, “Good for you. It’s been a rough year for so many, and I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”
I hung up the phone and I cried again. But this time, I cried from relief. She didn’t tell me to step it up and she didn’t shame me for my feelings. She validated me and affirmed me and didn’t force me to explain or justify. She accepted.
There were other versions of Grief that I encountered this year, but this loss of a group of students and loss of a team was my introduction. Grief swelled larger with the death of a friend. Grief ebbed and flowed as I walked away from a 15 year career. Grief snuck up on me as I navigated whether friendships would be lost or salvaged. Grief found her way into the forefront again as I’ve wrestled with an evolving faith.
I’ve learned that Grief is sometimes an ocean of sadness and other times as small as a pond. I’ve learned that Grief doesn’t call ahead before showing up. Sometimes she comes and goes. But I’ve also learned that it’s okay to welcome her.
Last week I spent two days packing up my classroom. I packed the feelings of loss. I tossed the snacks that had sat uneaten and untouched since March, 2020. I packed the books that had brought so many smiles to my students, and cornered off the curriculum that had expanded their growing minds. As I packed, I disconnected from parts of social media and asked friends to prescribe me their best albums to listen to. “What kind of energy are you looking for?” one friend asked. “Hope,” I responded.
By the end of the second day, as I packed the last box into my van and kicked the door to the school closed, Grief had evolved into Relief. I don’t know what will come next on my journey, but I have learned so much about how to navigate this path. I have learned not to hide from feelings, but to face them and not be afraid to walk through.
I always say that it’s always good to meet a fellow traveler. I suppose, on the journey of life, Grief is a fellow traveler too. Nice to meet you. I’ll warm up some tea.
