I was touched by this essay on grief, written for This I Believe, A Way to Honor Life.

When Grandpa died, I hadn't yet learned the importance of the process of grief. I thought that being strong meant not crying, being happy he was no longer in pain, and ignoring my pain. I was like that for a lot of the loss in my life; not necessarily death, but loss. I tried not to grieve and it took it's toll on my emotional and physical well-being. I know better know.

Now I know the importance of crying, of taking that box of tissues to bed and purging my pain in big crocodile tears and hiccup-y wails and snot dripping from my nose. I feel better after I cry, more ready to accept the loss. It makes the condolences easier to accept, platitudes are no longer platitudes, and moving on doesn't seem so impossible anymore.

I like the idea that that kind of grief is like honoring the dead, that they were so important to you that they're worth such a gut-wrenching response. I cry more often now than I used to. Not always the gross, body-fluid spewing crying, but pain-lessening crying, nonetheless. I now honor my losses, no matter how big or how small. It's been better that way.