The Beauty Of Time

By Ana Shaw

‘It is better to conquer grief that to deceive it’ - Seneca

My father died when I was 15. Even now at 20 years old I find it hard to understand. Part of me still sometimes hopes it isn’t real, that when I come home I might see him again. It’s the finality of death that I still can’t seem to wrap my head around.

The weird thing about grief is that there really isn’t a right way to do it. There is no handbook or life hack to get through it quicker, and it’s a really slow, painful, and strange process that is completely different for everyone. One second I’d be watching TV or out with my friends and the next it would just hit me, oh shit, my dad’s dead. I’d find myself breaking down for a minute and then being fine again. I didn’t understand myself anymore.

The five stages of grief are said to be denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. After almost five years I can say I have finally reached acceptance. When I think about my dad now, I get this overwhelming sense of gratitude. I was so lucky to be raised by such a pure, kind, loving, and beautiful soul. I can actually think about him now and smile, or even laugh! This is a place I never thought I’d reach.

For a very long time I felt like I was drowning in this sea of anger and sadness. I hated the world, I hated waking up in the morning, I hated myself, I hated my family. I hated that I felt like I was stuck in time. I tried so hard to run away from the fact that I no longer had a father; I drank myself into oblivion daily because I was so desperate to escape from the memories and images that had been ingrained into my head. I just wanted to forget. But of course, everything always came back.

I think one of the worst things about grief is that you don’t know when it’s going to get better - there’s no time frame. I remember speaking about this to one of my teachers in school, and she told me something which in the moment I just took to be a load of nonsense, but now I think about it weekly.

‘Imagine you’re sitting in a car which is driving away from a mountain. You’re watching the mountain. It is getting smaller and smaller with time, and you can see more and more of the world around it. It never goes away, it might get to a point where you can hardly see it, but it will always be there. It just becomes easier to see around it.’

I see this in myself now. The pain does always stay, it’s trapped in a place in my heart and sometimes it actually hurts, other times it’s just like a tight feeling in my chest, but it no longer feels like this huge obstacle that I can never overcome. It’s a part of me, it makes me who I am, and I am grateful for it.

And with time I began to understand that I’m allowed to let go. I’m allowed to not think about it, and this doesn’t, and will never, mean that I’m forgetting.

One day, like I did, you will wake up and realise that you are more than this feeling that once felt so suffocating. It’s okay to feel like yourself again, and it’s okay to allow this tragic event in your life to help you become a better person.

For me, it was sobriety that allowed this change. It forces you to sit with the feeling, it allows you to understand yourself, and it really does put everything into perspective when you stop abusing whatever it is that helps you to forget. Letting go is hard, and it was a painful process because part of me felt like I was leaving my dad behind with my old self. But now I know this could never be true.

The harsh truth is that life goes on. It’s okay for yours to go on too. It’s okay to start living again.

My dad didn’t even get to see me reach adulthood. He wasn’t here for my 16th birthday, my 18th, my 20th, he missed my results days, he missed the first drive down to uni, the first visit back home. I still miss everything about him. I miss his smile, his laugh, I miss hugging him, and I miss all the conversations and years we should have had together. But I am so grateful for this. It is a privilege that I am able to miss and feel the absence of such a wonderful person.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and tell my younger self how lucky she is, and how happy she is going to become. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her things will get better. Grief taught me that life can be beautiful, and while it will always be a part of me, it no longer consumes me.

Time truly is a healer.