Holding Heart Space
A personal essay about grief, growth and trying to hold space for both.
Story by Eva Bryner
I n my dream, my grandmother appears as the sun, bright and shining, warming me with her love. I wake up smiling, knowing she’s visiting me before continuing her journey to a place I cannot yet go.
My whole life, my Gran, Delores Watts, always told me to talk to the moon whenever I missed her. I talk to my moon-Gran often. When I had my seventh birthday in Portland, Oregon, I talked to my moon-Gran while she was in Zimbabwe. She worked in Africa with the Peace Corps for years, and each time I missed her, my moon was there to hold me.
On Dec. 18, 2020, Gran lost a swift and unexpected battle to liver cancer. In the sticky heat of an Arizona afternoon, she died, held by family.
The days following her passing were blurred by tears, warmed by alcohol and shared memories of her well-traveled life.
As my mom and I drove back from Tucson, Arizona to Portland over the Christmas holiday, our grief blanketed the blue-gray desert landscape we tore through. The heater blasted in our rental car and we cried to the sounds of Tracy Chapman. We tried listening to Christmas songs, but the crooning holiday cheer felt entirely wrong.
Grief is a funny thing. Everyone experiences it in some capacity — the past year of pandemic-induced loneliness is proof of this.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, everyone has grieved the loss of something. We’ve missed celebrating milestone events, lost connection with our communities and haven’t seen family. Some of us have even lost a loved one. With 3 million people dead, 2020 was a year carved by loss. Despite it all, grief feels isolating in its own nature.
When you lose someone you love, it feels as though nobody could ever understand your hurt — that your person is gone. I felt disconnected from those close to me and pulled away from the world.
When winter quarter classes started, I was a mess. My thoughts were consumed by Gran in her final moments, and my grief felt incredibly heavy. I thought it would never pass. My body was constantly asking for sleep, my brain unable to receive the message through its fog.
When a friend suggested I look for a grief counseling group, I quickly recognized it was a good idea. I’d thought about seeking therapy before, but needed a friend’s hand to guide me there.
The dark wet clouds of February loomed outside my window as I logged onto my first grief group session. We introduced ourselves and brought photos of our person to share. I cried as soon as I started talking.
Tonya Pepper, a counselor at Western Washington University, helped lead the grief group. Her welcoming tone and warm demeanor brought a sense of serenity to our meeting.
“One of my skills is providing a calm, grounded container for people experiencing profound states of loss, so they feel safe enough to be vulnerable to start the work of healing,” Pepper said.
Crying in a Zoom call with strangers is an odd feeling, but I came to realize sharing this emotional release, even through a screen, brought relief I hadn’t felt in months.
We met virtually every week. We shared photos of our people, talked about the stages of grief, and held space for the sharp feelings of loss and regret that bubbled up.
Each Tuesday I made space for my feelings and each Tuesday I cried. I started putting words to my grief. I listened to the experiences of my group with love and felt supported.
According to Pepper, grief group is unique, as most of the members are dealing with their first death of a significant loved one. As a group, we learn that our reactions are part of a normal grieving process.
During our third session, we came prepared for art therapy, a common type of treatment used to process grief. We were instructed to bring drawing materials and asked to let go of any negative thoughts we had of our abilities as artists. This was not an easy task. We drew representations of our hearts, visualizing in color the emotions we held.
As I drew my heart and filled the black lines with crayon, I fell into a velvety rhythm. I picked colors that resonated with me, filled in the spaces and listened to the sound of the wax lines forming on paper.
In the middle of my drawing was a big smooth white circle, surrounded by swirling blues, purples and reds. I thought of the circle as my heart space, a place for me to remember Gran and return to when I felt overwhelmed.
Only when Pepper pointed it out, did I realize I had drawn the moon.
I felt my heart open up in that moment, having a feeling of clarity knowing my grief could be beautiful. My grief could be celebratory, it could be joyous. I could move throughout the nonlinear world of grief and celebrate each second.
“We have all these precious people in our lives that we know deep down are temporary,” Pepper said. “When they pass away and I feel that burn of grief in my heart, for me it’s a good sign that I was able to open my heart and love them. It’s a bittersweet feeling.”
I began to leave our sessions feeling more whole, recollecting pieces of myself I thought were lost. I took notes of moments in our sessions that held my attention and reflected on them. I held each complicated emotion with love and let myself investigate them fully. The harder the moment, the more I was able to put my new skills to practice.
I found solace in my fellow group members, connecting over the complex heartache of living life without our people. They would not be at our graduations or meet our future partners. Together, we reconstructed our futures into ones of healing in honor of our people, rather than suffering without them.
Now when I think of Gran, I remember her laugh, the sweltering summer we spent finding crawdads in the river by her house and her hands braiding my hair. I remember the reasons her loss was heavy and honor them.
I still talk to my moon-Gran on the nights she shines brightly, her silver light holding my gaze. Smiling, my heart is filled with love.