Healing Old Wounds
This year I invited a dear friend to a workshop entitled “Healing from the Loss of a Spouse.” Approaching the second anniversary of her husband’s sudden decline and death (a four-day journey), grief continued to consume most of her thoughts and days. My desire was to support her in the healing process.
As I listened to the presentation that day, I considered grief in my own life. Though not the loss of a spouse, I had lost my mother, sister, and father at age 12, 18 and 20 respectively. Our family had been left reeling by the events, and survival efforts dominated our lives. Processing grief took a back seat to simply getting through the activities of daily living of school, work, and household with little attention given to understanding grief, emotions, or healing from the loss.
Joyce White
The session awakened something long dormant in me that I did not know laid buried underneath my skin. Over the next few days, a memory took prominence in my mind.
When someone we love dies, part of us seems to depart with them. When my mother died, I think half of my father’s life left too. She was the love of his life. She was 44. They would have celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary the following month.
I could write a book on the devastation that rocked our world. Yet no words could convey the effect of that tidal wave for us or any other family experiencing such a cataclysmic event.
Rather than write an entire book, there is one piece that I do want to share with you today that focuses on healing that took place this year, 56 years after my mother’s death.
As I mentioned earlier, that two-hour seminar stirred something in me, namely the memory of a conversation which took place between my father and me within months of my Mom’s death.
In grief work, they tell you that when someone you love dies, you have at least two kinds of loss. One is the loss of the person you loved (known as primary loss) and another, the loss tied to all those roles and functions they filled (known as secondary loss).
In our efforts to survive as a family unit, all the traditional homemaker functions needed to be redistributed. Thus, my father took on grocery shopping and laundry, my brother and I shared cooking and dishes, and so on. Since this era pre-dated permanent-press clothing, my aunt absorbed our ironing.
One afternoon while riding in the car with my father, I turned to him and said, “Daddy, do you think we could go over to Aunt Lorraine’s to pick up the ironing this evening? I don’t have anything to wear to school tomorrow.”
Suddenly, something in him erupted and spewed from his mouth like venom when he replied in fury, “I DON’T CARE IF YOU GO TO SCHOOL BARE BOTTOM TOMORROW.” The real blow followed. “IN FACT, YOU DO KNOW, DON’T YOU, THAT IF I HAD HAD A CHOICE BETWEEN YOUR LIFE AND YOUR MOTHER’S LIFE THAT I WOULD HAVE CHOSEN YOUR MOTHER, DON’T YOU?”
“The adult me knows that my father was so consumed with grief that he did not know what he was saying.... The twelve-year old me lacked that understanding and the scene and feelings went “underground,” the best coping mechanism a kid could have at such a tender age.”
I don’t recall anything else which transpired from that moment on in the car. The adult me knows that my father was so consumed with grief that he did not know what he was saying. He was not himself. He would never have intentionally inflicted such a wound on his daughter who he dearly loved as he had his wife. One might say he was out of his mind with grief.
The twelve-year old me lacked that understanding and the scene and feelings went “underground,” the best coping mechanism a kid could have at such a tender age.
I promised that I would share the story of healing of an old wound. You’ve heard the wound and now here’s the rest of the story.
I shared the memory of that day with my husband, heartbreak and all, shortly after it surfaced.
Instantly, with full attention and 100% sincerity, he turned to me and said in earnest, “Hon, I don’t think I ever understood how really awful it was for you then. I wish I could have been there. If I had been there, I would have carried your books and held your hand.”
In that moment, I could envision that sweet little guy’s face at age 12 himself, carrying my books and holding my hand. In my mind, I could see my protector and defender walk up to the door of our family home, knock boldly, and await my father’s answer. When he appeared, I could hear him saying, “Mr. XXXX, I do not mean to be disrespectful, but you CANNOT talk to your daughter that way!!!”
His words and the vision it painted in my mind became like aloe on a burn. The genuine and sincere love of this innocent little fellow at my side warmed my heart and healed it in a way inexplicable.
Nothing could take my father’s words back, but we could re-write the story. What a healing balm that this new narrative gave me.
Surprisingly, recounting the story of the cruel words and interaction that occurred that day in the car has lost its sting. Now what prevails is the new memory I have of a little boy whose love dwarfs the pain of the scene without him.
You see, my husband’s words allowed me to “photoshop” the very picture that I hold in memory. He is with me now in that very dark chapter. I am not alone as I had once been. And that makes all the difference in the world.
I wonder if there is a similar hurtful wound that you might carry—perhaps the result of cruel or ignorant words spoken to you by a kid in school, a bully on the bus, an insensitive teacher, a parent or parent-figure. And I wonder who the trustworthy person in your life might be to help you re-write the script and photoshop the scene with a new and miraculous healing touch.
This is my hope for you that goes out with this writing.
Why are we so afraid? None of us wants to be judged negatively by others, perhaps especially in a professional situation where careers can live or die on the playing field. Combine that with plenty of cultural pressures and practices that suggest we become someone other than ourselves to succeed, by cloaking ourselves in the armor of over-practiced technique. (Some presentation training programs use one-size-fits-all formulas that don’t stick).
Harvard Business School professor, Frances Frei says it’s easier to coach people to fit in as opposed to rewarding their differences. Her premise is that trust is at the base of all effective communications, and that empathy, rigorous logic, and authenticity are the three major components of trust in everyone.
Frei’s take on authenticity is that it’s often easier to pretend to be like others around you, as opposed to being the best version of yourself. If we hold back who we truly are we’re far less likely to be trusted, and less likely to be the effective communicator we need and want to be.
It’s tougher than ever with the layers of technology that have become so integrated into the way we connect. Distractions are the #1 enemy of empathy, and the devices we have come to rely on have created barriers that get in the way of “seeing” others and ourselves as we are. (And next we’re going to create avatars in a new metaverse?). Dr. Frei would say, “put them down and look up” at others.
The good news is that when we shift our paradigm away from fear of failure and start with the glory of our unique authenticity it frees us to bring the best version of ourselves to any relationship or challenge.
It takes practice, and it helps to have a coach who can navigate the feedback and the intersections with other opportunities along the way. Like any other growth journey, it’s important to unpack the buildup of beliefs imposed over time, to allow for a truer picture of what success looks like.
I don’t know where my fellow Scout member is today, but I hope she has found the feeling of freedom that comes with sharing who she truly is with others.
Joyce White helps clients push past the pause button on the speed of life so they can discern what matters most in life, work, faith and practice.