The power of rest

Often in our busy world, there is pressure to go nonstop. We pack our schedules, we over-commit, we power through. In a culture that values productivity, taking a break can sometimes feel bad - even wrong - but the truth is that prioritizing rest is vital to our wellbeing.

Have you ever heard the phrase “rest and digest”? This phrase is used to describe the state when the parasympathetic nervous system is engaged. It’s the state when we are physically calm - our stress hormones (cortisol) are reduced, our heart rate is normal, our digestion is stabilized. It’s the opposite of the sympathetic nervous system, which we commonly know as the feeling of fight or flight, a heightened state brought on with stress. We want to spend as much time as we can in the Rest & Digest state, but it can be a challenge in our modern world. Stress can come in many different forms too - the Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory includes a range of common life stressors that you might not even realize are stressful, from getting a parking ticket to getting a promotion to vacation. It’s important to acknowledge the many small stressors in our daily lives because they can all contribute to a constant underlying state of unrest.

Unsurprisingly, loss has a high stress score on the Holmes-Rahe scale. Grief not only brings about sadness but it also comes with stress. Rest can feel extra-challenging for some in grief because it’s often the time when feelings emerge, and that can feel overwhelming. We may use busyness to avoid the big feelings, but in doing so we are also avoiding an opportunity for our bodies to come down from the cortisol rush, which can leave us feeling more exhausted and emotionally bottled. This can sometimes lead to an even bigger crash later.

Of course, coping through busyness and avoidance is not altogether unhealthy. Grief is hard. Sometimes we just want to push the hard feelings away, and that’s okay. But because grief is hard, it’s important to also prioritize taking care of yourself, and rest is a critical part of that equation.

Rest can come in many forms. It can be as simple as a ten-minute break to do some deep breathing or stretching. It can be sipping coffee quietly alone or jotting a few notes in a journal. It can be taking a bath or a nap. In moments of rest, think about slowing down your breath and feeling your feet on the ground. Relax your shoulders. Put your hand on your heart and feel it beating. Even for a few moments, slow down.

You are doing the hardest work.

Six pieces of highly autobiographical bereavement advice

Originally posted by Mae Rice on McSweeny’s, September 26, 2012

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1. What to Do When Your Mom’s Death Certificate Incorrectly Lists Her as Chicano

“My god, how embarrassing that we would mistake her for Chicano,” the lady at the funeral home will say, in a way that suggests she either hates Chicano people or thinks you do. You will want to clarify that this is not about Chicano people being famously awful, or famously immortal, but just about accurate government records. Even if you tell her you are a Chicano supremacist, though, she will keep muttering “Chicano” to herself like a remorseful house elf. Let it go.

2. How to Tell People Your Mom Died

You will sometimes want to minimize the problem by comparing it to more serious problems, as in, “She died, but at least apartheid is over.” Other times, you will want to downplay the news via hesitant questions—“I think my mom is like… dead?”—which can elicit responses such as, “Have you tried calling her cell phone?” Even when you send a group email to your closest friends, announcing her death, you might sign off with, “Thanks for your support during this shitshow,” because “shitshow” is a fun, casual word for a fun, casual death. It is better to tell people in a simple, declarative sentence, though.

3. How to Find an Outfit For Your Mom’s Service

You will buy a black sheath dress that hits above the knee, and you and your dad will wonder whether it is slutty. Your mom would know, but you are too young to have been to many funerals, and your dad only knows about fashions from the men’s department at Costco. You will call your friend Alice for a second opinion, which is actually a first opinion because you and your dad shared the non-opinion of “huh.” You will eventually return the sheath, to be safe; ideally, you will replace it with a knee-length skirt.

At your mom’s service, a single-file line of people will hug you and whisper, “I’m sorry for your loss,” until you reach Alice’s mom. She will instead whisper, “You don’t look slutty at all!” Although you are at a memorial service, you should feel free to high-five her. She is awesome.

4. What to Do With Your Mom’s Ceramic Birds

Loving your mom and loving the tiny ceramic birds she ordered online from her hospital bed are two separate things. This is especially true of the last one she ordered, which will arrive in the mail after her death. It will be roughly the size of a golf ball, and it will be glued to a hairclip.

Do not incorporate the surprisingly heavy bird into your only hairstyle (a look somewhere in between “bedhead” and “meth user”). You can just give the bird to your friend’s dog with bangs. It will look very festive on the dog.

5. What to Do When You Want to Play the Dead Mom Card

Don’t. Playing the dead mom card to win an argument—unless the argument is about what your mom has been up to lately—is like playing the Hitler card. There is always a gentler way. When you want to say “omelets were Hitler’s favorite food,” or “my mom liked omelets, and then she died,” just say what you mean. You don’t want an omelet.

6. What to Do When It is Mother’s Day

You will worry that people will approach you on the street—because you are not with your mom or on the phone saying, "You are my mom!”—to heckle you. “No mom today, huh?” and “What day do you think it is, Labor Day?” and “Cat got your mom?” are all questions you will have nightmares about. Luckily, people never say these things. You can go outside on Mother’s Day. It will be fine.

3 Therapy Apps

Photo: Birxi

Individual therapy can be a really helpful tool during the grief process. Having an objective and professional point of view can provide perspective while sorting through all the different feelings that come along with grief. Thanks to advances in technology, therapy is a lot more accessible these days, so if you can’t get to an in-person therapist or if you prefer connecting with one remotely, there are options. We’ve rounded up a few of the top therapy apps and their costs below. If you’ve tried any of the apps or if you have other favorites, feel free to respond in the comments.

Please note that therapists are generally not able to diagnose or prescribe over the platform.

Talkspace
Talkspace has a variety of different plans available based on the type of therapy you’re looking for. There are options for live video therapy, text messaging with your therapist, and audio. You get to choose your therapist from a hand-narrowed list, all with the highest clinical license in their state of practice, plus 3+ years of clinical experience. The cost ranges from $65-$99 a week, billed monthly (depending on the plan you choose). Talkspace is in network through EAP and health insurers, so be sure to check with your insurance company to see if you’re covered or if your employer offers the platform as an employee benefit.

BetterHelp
On BetterHelp, users are matched with an experienced therapist (3+ years) after taking a questionnaire, and you can do live video sessions, phone sessions, texting, or live chats with the assigned counselor. Users can choose to remain anonymous if they prefer to preserve their privacy. BetterHelp does not work with insurance companies or employers, but there are flexible cost packages ranging from $40-$70 billed weekly, and you can cancel your payment at any time.

Larkr
Larkr offers video talk therapy. The app matches you with a therapist based on the info you provide, but you can choose whichever time zone works best for your schedule. In between video sessions you can contact your therapist in the app, and there are also other individual tools for mood tracking and journaling. The cost is $85 a session, no subscription or commitment. For cooperating insurance, you can submit to your insurance company for reimbursement.

Tips for writing a condolence note

When someone experiences a loss, a good way to show support is to send a condolence note. It’s a relatively low effort and low cost way of showing someone that you care and acknowledging the loss they’ve experienced. But writing condolence notes isn’t something most of us do on a regular basis - maybe some are totally new to it - and it can be challenging to know what to say or where to begin. So, here are some tips to get you started. Feel free to comment for any I missed!

1. Don’t hesitate.

There’s a common misconception that sending a card will be intrusive or will just make the recipient sadder. I’ve even heard people say, “I don’t know her that well, would it be weird if I sent her a card?” The answer is no. When I lost my dad, I received notes from two high school classmates I barely knew - they were in other friend groups, and it had been a year since we’d graduated. I still remember those notes vividly, and I felt a huge sense of comfort from them. They were some of the only notes I received from people my age, including friends. It feels good, not weird, to be acknowledged when something big happens in your life; it’s weirder when people don’t acknowledge it. And trust me - any sadness the recipient feels isn’t brought on by your letter, it’s just there, a natural part of the grieving process. So don’t worry. And even if you do feel a little weird, just remember that the momentary discomfort you feel in writing will yield something that could be meaningful to the recipient for the rest of their life.

2. The format isn’t that important*.

A plain card is fine, as is a card from the condolence section of the drugstore (just make sure you pre-read any quotes or words on the front or interior before you buy just in case there are sentiments you don’t agree with). My go-to is usually a standard card with a minimally patterned front (nothing too bright or “fun”) and a blank interior, which allows enough space for several lines of text in my own words. In the digital age, e-cards and email are also good options. This also works as a fallback if you don’t have a way to get their mailing address (it’s best not to ask them directly for their email or mailing address - instead, check with others who know them; this will be the easiest way not to pile on additional tasks). My personal preference is always a tangible card because it lasts longer, but a well crafted email can be nice too.

* Except texts. I say, avoid texts.

3. Some clichés are okay.

If creative writing isn’t your forte, phrases like “I’m sorry for your loss” and “You’re in my thoughts” are totally acceptable. They’re short and sweet and convey your support. You can also say things like “I’m here for you” especially if you can provide them help in the future, whether it’s a coffee chat or an errand, etc (see more below). But I recommend avoiding phrases like “we’re never given more than we can handle” or “You’ll get through this” or even “You’re strong” because while the intent of these messages may be to lift up your bereaved friend, they dismiss the heaviness of the current moment. Saying this to someone who’s just experienced a loss can minimize their experience and feel more like you’re saying “get over it.” If you feel that these sentiments are important to share, save them for a later time when emotions aren’t as raw and they could be reassuring.

4. When in doubt, make it about them.

Sometimes it can be tempting, especially if you’ve experienced loss, to go beyond the typical condolence phrases and try to relate to the grieving person through your now-shared experience. You may want to offer a perspective or advice based on that, but tread lightly. Sometimes sharing about your own experience can make it more about you than them. The best way to determine which side of that line you might be on is to ask yourself what your intention is - if it's to say "Hey I've been through that too" or "I know how you feel", steer clear - those are about you. If you say, "Losing a sibling is like losing a part of you, and I'm deeply sorry that you're going through that." That provides a nod to your experience but doesn't under

If you don't have personal experience with loss that can be applied here, that's okay. Maybe you have a memory or anecdote you can include about the person they’ve lost. Some of the letters I cherished after my dad died were those with personal stories from friends and colleagues. They felt like little windows into his past, each revealing another side of him I didn't know. If you never met the person your friend has lost, you could say something like “I remember the story you told me about the time your mom took you out of school for ice cream. She must have been a very special person to you.”

5. Be specific.

When it comes to saying things like "I'm here for you" or "I'm around if you need anything" it's better to be more specific. How would you plan to be there for that person? Are you willing to run errands? Are you available to be a listener when they need someone to talk to? Including an example can be helpful and takes some of the burden off of them. When someone is in the midst of grieving, it can be an overwhelming time. Especially if the loss was someone close to them, there are often a lot of logistics to sort through. Offering to take a task or two off that list or finding tasks that can ease their everyday will help alleviate the overwhelm. Some examples include: dropping off a meal or snacks for them on their schedule (ideally a few weeks after the initial spike of meals others bring), helping with errands like dry-cleaning or (if you know them well enough) childcare or walking their dog, and offering to pick up coffee from their favorite spot and go for a walk on their schedule. And of course, offering these things is not required for a good condolence note. They require some commitment, so don't offer if you don't actually mean it.

There are plenty more ways to write a good condolence note. Comment below if you have other advice and tips!

A bit of grief advice for non-grieving partners

Originally posted on Dear Sugar, an advice column from Cheryl Strayed, at the time going by the pen name Sugar.

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Dear Sugar,

I’m a thirty-eight-year-old guy and engaged to be married this summer. My fiancé is thirty-five. I don’t need romantic advice. I’m writing to you about my fiancé’s mother, who passed away from cancer several years before I met her, when my fiancé was twenty-three.

She and her mother were very close. Her death was an awful blow to my fiancé at the time and it still hurts her deeply. It’s not like she can’t get out of bed or is struggling with depression. She has a great life. One of her friends calls her “joy on wheels” and that’s accurate, but I know it isn’t the whole story. Her mom’s death is always lurking. It comes up on a regular basis. When she cries or talks about how much she misses her mom, I’m supportive, but I usually feel insufficient. I don’t know what to say beyond lame things like, “I’m sorry” and “I can imagine how you’d feel” (though I can’t because my mom is still alive). She never had much of a relationship with her dad, who left the picture a long time ago, and her sister and her aren’t very close, so I can’t rely on someone in her family to be there for her. Sometimes I try to cheer her up or try to get her to forget about “the heavy stuff,” but that usually backfires and only makes her feel worse.

I don’t know how to handle this, Sugar. I feel lame in the face of her grief. I know you lost your mother too. What can you tell me? I want to be a better partner when it comes to handling grief.

Signed,
Bewildered

Dear Bewildered,

Several months after my mother died I found a glass jar of stones tucked in the far reaches of her bedroom closet. I was moving her things out of the house I’d thought of as home, clearing way for the woman with whom my stepfather had suddenly fallen in love. It was a devastating process—more brutal in its ruthless clarity than anything I’ve ever experienced or hope to again—but when I had that jar of rocks in my hands I felt a kind of elation I cannot describe in any other way except to say that in the cold clunk of its weight I felt ever so fleetingly as if I were holding my mother.

That jar of stones wasn’t just any jar of stones. They were rocks my brother and sister and I had given to our mom. Stones we’d found as kids on beaches and trails and the grassy patches on the edges of parking lots and pressed into her hands, our mother’s palms the receptacle for every last thing we thought worth saving.

I sat down on the bedroom floor and dumped them out, running my fingers over them as if they were the most sacred things on the earth. Most were smooth and black and smaller than a potato chip. Worry stones my mother had called them, the sort so pleasing against the palm she claimed they had the power to soothe the mind if you rubbed them right.

What do you do with the rocks you once gave to your dead mother? Where is their rightful place? To whom do they belong? To what are you obligated? Memory? Practicality? Reason? Faith? Do you put them back in the jar and take them with you across the wild and unkempt sorrow of your twenties or do you simply carry them outside and dump them in the yard?

I couldn’t know. Knowing was so far away. I could only touch the rocks, hoping to find my mother in them.

Not long before my mother died, I met a woman who’d been attacked by a man as she walked home from a party. By the time I met her she lived in a group home for those with brain injuries. Her own injury was the result of the attack, her head having hit the sidewalk so hard in the course of it that she’d never be the same again. She was incapable of living alone, incapable of so very much, and yet she remembered just enough of her former life as a painter and teacher that she was miserable in the group home and she desperately longed to return to her own house. She refused to accept the explanations given to her as to why she couldn’t. She had come to fervently believe that in order to be released she had only to recite the correct combination of numbers to her captors, her caretakers.

93480219072, she’d say as they fed her and bathed her and helped her get ready for bed. 6552091783. 4106847508. 05298562347. And on and on in a merciless spiral. But no matter what she said, she would never crack the code. There was no code. There was only the new fact of her life, changed irrevocably.

In the months after my mother died, I thought of this woman an inordinate amount and not only because I was distressed by her suffering. I thought of her because I understood her monumental desire and her groundless faith: I believed that I could crack a code too. That my own irrevocably changed life could be redeemed if only I could find the right combination of things. That in those objects my mother would be given back to me in some indefinable and figurative way that would make it okay for me to live the rest of my life without her.

And so I searched.

I didn’t find it in the half empty container of peppermint Tic Tacs that had been in the glove compartment of my mother’s car on the day she died or in the fringed moccasins that still stunk precisely of my mother’s size six feet a whole year later. I didn’t find it in her unfashionably large reading glasses or the gray porcelain horse that had sat on the shelf near her bed. I didn’t find it in her pen from the bank with the real hundred-dollar bill shredded up inside or in the butter dish with the white marble ball in its top or in any one of the shirts she’d sewn for herself or for me.

And I didn’t find it in those stones either, in spite of my hopes on that sad day. It wasn’t anywhere, in anything and it never would be.

“It will never be okay,” a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple years ago. “It will never be okay that our mothers are dead.”

At the time she said this to me she wasn’t yet really my friend. We’d chatted passingly at parties, but this was the first time we were alone together. She was fiftysomething and I was forty. Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she’d said—it will never be okay—entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as “joy on wheels,” though there isn’t one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven’t experienced through the lens of our grief. I’m not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we both did that). I’m talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body’s core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

The same is true for your fiancé, Bewildered. She is your joy on wheels whose every experience is informed and altered by the fact that she lost the most essential, elemental, primal and central person in her life too soon. I know this without knowing her. It will never be okay that she lost her mother. And the kindest most loving thing you can do for her is to bear witness to that, to muster the strength and courage and humility it takes to accept the enormous reality of its not okayness and be okay with it the same way she has to be. Get comfortable being the man who says oh honey, I’m so sorry for your loss over and over again.

That’s what the people who’ve consoled me the most deeply in my sorrow have done. They’ve spoken those words or something like them every time I needed to hear it; they’ve plainly acknowledged what is invisible to them, but so very real to me. I know saying those cliché and ordinary things makes you feel squirmy and lame. I feel that way too when I say such things to others who have lost someone they loved. We all do. It feels lame because we like to think we can solve things. It feels insufficient because there is nothing we can actually do to change what’s horribly true.

But compassion isn’t about solutions. It’s about giving all the love that you’ve got.

So give it, sweet pea. It’s clear that you’ve done it already. Your kind letter is proof. But I encourage you to stop being bewildered. Have the guts to feel lame. Say that you’re sorry for your lover’s loss about three thousand times over the coming years. Ask about her mother sometimes without her prompting. Console her before she asks to be consoled. Honor her mother on your wedding day and in other ways as occasions arise. Your mother-in-law is dead, but she lives like a shadow mother in the woman you love. Make a place for her in your life too.

That’s what Mr. Sugar has done for me. That’s what some of my friends and even acquaintances have done. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it better.

Next week it will be twenty years since my mother died. So long I squint every time the thought comes to me. So long that I’ve finally convinced myself there isn’t a code to crack. The search is over. The stones I once gave my mother have scattered, replaced by the stones my children give to me.

I keep the best ones in my pockets. Sometimes there is one so perfect I carry it around for weeks, my hand finding it and finding it, soothing itself along the black arc of it.

Yours,
Sugar

Anxiety, another stage of grief

Photo: @thetonik_co

People are generally familiar with the idea that grief brings about sadness, sometimes anger. Anxiety has often been referred to as the other stage of grief because it’s not part of “the big five” but it’s not uncommon for loss to bring up this feeling. Claire Bidwell even wrote a book on it. For some, because anxiety isn’t always talked about alongside grief, experiencing it for the first time feels unexpected and confusing.

There are many reasons why people might feel anxious after a loss—financial strain, changes in relationships and living arrangements, the added stress of having to handle someone’s affairs or estate. Loss also shines a light on the impermanence of life, and that can turn into fear.

Here are a few ways to deal with anxiety, if you find yourself in this position.

Familiarize yourself

Sometimes being unable to label or understand a feeling, especially one like anxiety, can intensify it. Read about anxiety and panic attacks and learn about the physiological and mental symptoms so you can recognize when it’s happening. Learn about what anxiety feels like in your body and mind so that when you experience it, you can name it.

Notice triggers

Once you’re able to start identifying the anxiety, pay attention to when you’re feeling it more often. See if there are patterns. Do you start to feel more panicked when you’re behind the wheel? About to go to sleep? If you can identify times of day or situations where your anxiety peaks, this can help you prepare for it.

Breathe

The number one way to help manage anxiety is to breathe. Taking deep breaths, especially all the way into the diaphragm (known as deep belly breathing) can relax your parasympathetic nervous system and let your body and brain know that you’re not in danger. Read more about deep belly breathing in this post.

Think of your feet

Another way to manage anxiety in the moment is to ask yourself where your feet are. This technique helps you become present in the moment and can help take your mind off of the fear and panic. Anxiety can sometimes be a feeling in the mind, like a runaway train. Reminding yourself where your feet are can bring you back into your body and ground you in the now.

Talk to a professional

You don’t have to suffer alone. If you’re experiencing anxiety in your life, talk to a professional — a therapist, doctor, or psychiatrist. There’s no shame in getting help. Talk therapy is a great way to verbalize and understanding your feelings and what’s contributing to them. Medication can also be a helpful step and may not need to be a permanent solution. Talk to your personal doctor to get more information on whether this is the right approach for you. [Grief Collective is not recommending one particular health treatment and is not a substitution for professional advice]