My therapist says I'm not a grief expert. How am I not?

I've endured a lot of loss in my life. I should be better at this by now.

After my dad died in a car accident, everyone told me to “be strong.” I was 18—the eldest daughter.

“You have to take care of your mother,” one person would say.

“You have to take care of your brothers,” another would say.

At first, I nodded my head, seemingly ready for the responsibility. But halfway through my dad’s wake, I thought I might vomit if one more person told me to have the type of strength that they sure as shit didn’t have. I knew this because along with the Be Strong Shoulder Pats and the I’m So Sorry Side Hugs, the I Can’t Imagine What You’re Going Throughs felt like a slap in the face.

No shit you can’t imagine what I’m going through. Your dad is still alive.

That day, I swore that when the roles were reversed, I’d have something better to say than “I’m sorry for your loss” and “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Fast-forward to today and that vow looks a little flimsy. It’s not that I haven’t dealt with more loss. Just the opposite. Grandparents. Uncles. Pets. Students.

Some deaths were like my dad’s—sudden eruptions of grief. Others deaths I knew for weeks and that knowing made the grief fast and slow and wildly unpredictable.

Spoiler Alert: They all fucking sucked.

So here I am at 36-years-old thinking I should have this stuff figured out by now. But this past Tuesday as I was hashing things out with my therapist, she looks at me like the Dumb Dumb I am.

“Sarah, you’re not a grief expert,” she said.

I laughed in her face.

“Tell that to everyone else,” I said, dramatically taking a sip of my watered down iced tea like I was a too-cool celebrity on a late night talk show.

“Who’s everyone?”

“Everyone,” I said flatly.

“Okay,” she said, taking a long sigh.

She knows my history. How doesn’t she understand this?

“Does this ‘everyone’ think you’re a grief expert or are you trying to convince yourself you are one?”

Fuuuuuuck.

“Just because you’ve endured substantial loss in your life doesn’t make you a grief expert.”

“Doesn’t it?” I said, a little too loudly.

“No, and you know that. Each death is different.”

I chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“My friend sent me a voice note the other day with a similar message, just in a weirder way.”

“How so?”

“She said each death is its own flower of hell,” I said, still chuckling.

“Well, she’s right.”

I left therapy 20 minutes later, promising that I’d try for the millionth time to give myself grace.

It’s been hard reflecting on all the wakes and memorials and funerals and celebration-of-life’s I’ve been to and realizing that I’m no more “good” at death than anyone else. Sure, I’ve seen some horrible stuff, but does that make me any more prepared for the next horrible thing?

No.

Losing someone I love is my biggest fear and it’s not something I think I can overcome like going on a hike to get over a fear of heights or going sky-diving to get over a fear of flying. Losing someone you love is the worst thing in the world and there’s no shortcut to get around it. You just have to go through it.

Every session, I tell my therapist I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle another death in my life. Every session, she adjusts my vocabulary.

“You haven’t handled death,” she says. “You’ve survived it. And you’ll keep surviving.”

I guess that’s all I know for sure.

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