A Stone to Carry

By Jesslyn Marie

Grief feels like a blank page. Much like setting out to write something, the “not knowing” is paralyzing. Not knowing where to start. Not knowing when to start. Not knowing if I’m making progress or simply forcing something out that will later be erased from the page, landing me firmly back at square one.

Grief feels like a game of Twister. Left hand, happy memory. Right hand, guilt and regret. Left foot, breathe. Right foot, numb. The demands of each emotion twist and turn my entire being into unrecognizable shapes until the carefully built set of checks and balances collapses in on itself, washing me in overwhelming relief at not having to hold it all together any longer.

Grief feels like a rollercoaster. A steady and slow climb to the top before plummeting downwards. Every dip, rise, and turn comes as a surprise, not quite knowing which way the ride will take me next. One moment, I’m on top of the world; the next, I’m careening through a darkened tunnel— it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

Grief feels like a Jenga tower; each individual block a memory. The easy ones come loose, surfacing to the top with nary a worry, and the increasingly difficult ones refuse to budge without persistent yet gentle coaxing. Push too hard, and the precarious structure threatens to topple. The higher it climbs, the harder it falls. Avoidance only prolongs the inevitable.

Grief just feels. And that’s what makes it so incredibly difficult to talk about— the part of the brain responsible for feelings and emotions (the limbic system) simply can’t translate them into actual words. Last fall, when I started seeing a therapist, I keenly avoided talking about my dad and his passing. Not necessarily because I wanted to; it just felt like too much at that point in time. It’s been almost three years, and it’s taken very intentional baby steps of tugging at the various strings that make up this knotted ball of hurt to see which ones wanted to come loose first— a quick mention in conversation here, a good sob session to myself there. Recently, it’s felt more and more like it’s “time” to truly dig in.

As someone who struggles with intermittent depression, it’s been a tricky road to navigate. It’s very easy for me to become overwhelmed by the emotions surrounding my father’s death, and knowing when to dig and when to rest is still very much a work in progress. When I wrote the above stanzas, it took me several days to get even that much out. It was a personal exercise in overcoming that emotion-to-language barrier in describing what my grief process has felt like, while carefully paying attention to when the scale started tipping towards an absolute deluge of feelings that would inevitably send me intoa downward spiral. I haven’t always been successful in keeping that balance, but I no longer feel like I have to carry this oppressive weight around with me all the time. I can come back to these recorded thoughts as many times as needed to reflect on, tinker with, and dive a little deeper.

Grief can feel like a massive boulder you have to carry… But, over time, the edges smooth, it gets worn down, and it becomes easier to bear.

I think what bothers me most about grief is the societal idea that when one thing ends, another begins— as if bereavement has some unspoken time limit to it and you’ll magically “move on” at that point. This has never sat quite right with me. It suggests that most everything happens in a neat, linear manner and, if experience has taught me anything, it couldn’t be further from the truth. After all, the entirety of our existence is a complicated and intricately woven tapestry of relationships and experiences, so it feels to me more akin to a complex system of overlapping layers. In many ways, something has most definitely ended (life and business as usual), which has in turn led to something else beginning (death and varying degrees of mourning), but there are several gray areas.

The actual relationship I had with my dad, in a real and tangible manner, has obviously come to an end— I can no longer physically visit with him, give him a hug, or talk with him on the phone— and the immense pain I felt immediately following his death has receded by a large degree. But he’s still very much a part of my life, in ways I’m both keenly aware of and have yet to discover, and I still feel a great amount of pain. It’s just… different. Nothing has “ended,” per se; it’s merely transformed, taking bits and pieces of what was and making them into what is.

My mother once told me an apt analogy that grief can feel like a massive boulder you have to carry. It’s heavy, rough, and awkward— impossible to balance and crushing in its sheer weight. But, over time, the edges smooth, it gets worn down, and it becomes easier to bear. Eventually, it erodes into a polished stone that fits comfortably in your pocket. You will always carry it with you but, instead of a seemingly impossible burden, you barely notice, save for the moments when you reach your hand in to trace all of the familiar edges with your fingertips. It will never subside entirely, rather mold itself from a source of anguish and suffering into a well of comfort and fond memories. I very much look forward to that day.

JESSLYN MARIE is a Bozeman-based photographer and avid outdoor enthusiast, combining these two passions into adventure elopements. Her main jam is 4-season solo backpacking, but she can also be found skiing, mountain biking, rock climbing, playing hockey, and empowering/educating women on recreating in the outdoors. Jesslyn has taught womenspecific classes for REI, SheJumps, and Bridger Babes, and is the backpacking mentor for Bridger Babes. To see some of her work and follow along, check her out on Instagram at @jesslynmariephoto or visit her website at jesslynmarie.com for more info.