I’m standing about knee deep in the ocean, and the waves are strong. I’m doing what I can to find purchase in the sand, gripping with my toes, to help me keep upright.

That’s a fool’s errand. The ocean does what it wants, and I am of no concern to it.

Grief is the same.

It comes in waves.

It ebbs and flows, has highs and lows like the tides that rush in and then recede. We have times where we can stay afloat, and times where the sand comes rushing out from beneath our feet and threatens to upend us. Times where we feel buoyed, and times where we feel at risk for sinking into its depths, never to rise again.

The only guarantee is the force behind it all, its inevitability and omnipotence. We are so small in comparison, in the long run.

Grief is like fire, for some. A pyre that never ceases to burn. But personally, I’ve always thought of grief as the drumbeat of ocean waves. If you stand in the shoreline long enough, you get the hang of its rhythm and learn how to keep it from overtaking you. That doesn’t mean it fades away entirely. The ocean is always there, it’s always been there, and it always will be there.

But, it turns out that we don’t have to drown in it.

These days, I usually choose to find the omnipresence comforting. I have tougher times with it too, like anyone would of course. I’m just not domineered by it so much anymore.

Ebb and flow.