Grief — In and Out.

Grief — In and Out.

There should be another word for grief. There probably is one, but I’m too tired to go thesaurusing. Because, in truth, there are two very distinct versions of it.

One is outward. You grieve with others. Sometimes for others. It’s collective, communal. Remembering, talking, sometimes crying. Together.

The other is inward. Self-grief. Like self-love, but the opposite. Mastur-grieving, maybe?

They both have their place. Their time. Their purpose. But they feel so different.

Outward grief has a shape, an energy. It looks like this:

…Building a bike rack/shelter in Shea’s honor our local school.

…Hosting friends to celebrate him with s’mores and a big campfire.

…Telling stories about him every night as a family.

…Making stickers in his honor and slapping them everywhere.

…Surrounding ourselves with photos of his smiling face in every room.

…Hearing someone share a memory that makes us laugh—or cry.

…Writing, publishing, sharing about him. About grief.

…Surrounding ourselves with our friends and family to remember him during the holidays.

It’s active, tangible. You’re doing something.

Inward grief, though—that’s another beast entirely.

It sneaks up on you in the quiet, the stillness, the surprises:

…Crying when I find one of his toys under the couch.

…Melting down at the thought of him missing the chance to see Bills playing in the snow.

…Crying in the middle of Costco because kid gloves are on sale. He was so excited about being “big enough” for gloves instead of mittens.

…That stomach drop when I see newborns, toddlers, or four-year-olds and am reminded of him at those stages.

…Holding my breath so I can try to hold it together while my daughter sits with Santa for a picture.

…Finding an old video of him, smiling through my tears.

…Seeing a photo memory pop up from anything that would be his last. His last thanksgiving. His last Fitzy turkey pot pie. His last birthday.

…Writing to him. For him. For me.

Both forms of grief are necessary. I crave them both—at different times, in different moods. They each do their part.

But balancing them? That’s the hard part. Every day, Laura and I work at adulting, being patient parents, patient partners, while giving our grief its space. Both outwardly and inwardly. It is really fucking hard.

But as my therapist says: Some things we don’t want to be good at. Loss is one of them.

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Shea Thomas Callanan, our boy, passed away on October 12th unexpectedly. His epilepsy did not define his life, nor will it define his memory. If you feel inclined, please support Shea’s Play Fund which will be used to make play more accessible wherever it is needed most.