When You Reach for Help and Then You Just Can't

The wave pulls back, and for a moment you can see.

That moment is enough to reach.

A little while ago, a woman booked a call with me. She never came.

I sent the reminder. I held the time. I sat down ready to meet her. And the minutes passed, and it became clear she was not coming.

Anyone who does this work will tell you no shows are part of it. I know that. But this one stayed with me because I could not stop wondering what happened in the space between the woman who booked that call, the one who decided, yes, I need this, I want this, and the woman who, when the moment came, could not pick up the phone.

I think I know. I think it was grief.

Here is what grief does that almost no one outside of it understands. It comes in waves. There are moments when the wave pulls back and you can see clearly, and in those moments you feel something close to desperate, and you reach. You sign up. You book the call. You text the friend. You look up the group. You do the brave thing.

And then the wave comes back in.

Most of the time, grief is a fog. I used to call it marshmallow land. That thick, soft, swallowing place where you are walking around and the whole world is coming at you and yet it feels so far away. People talk to you and the words do not reach. Things happen and they do not register. You are in there, deep, and the fog holds everything at arm's length.

But every now and then, something cuts through. Something grabs you. A sentence. A song. A post you were not looking for. A call you somehow booked.

I have come to believe that when something gets through the fog, it is worth paying attention to. Not because everything happens for a reason. It doesn't. But because some part of you that is still trying to survive noticed something it needed. So if something reaches you, if you read something, or hear something, or stumble onto something online and feel it land, pay attention. That is not nothing. That is you, reaching.

The hard part is what comes next. Because choosing to actually talk to someone about your grief can feel overwhelming, even frightening. You have to let yourself feel vulnerable. You have to say the thing out loud.

And underneath all of it is a quieter fear I know far too well. The fear that you are not even allowed to grieve this hard.

So many of us walk around judging ourselves. I should be handling this better. I should be further along. I should be able to do life the way I used to.

What the people outside your grief cannot see is that you are not the same person you were. You have been completely changed by this. And the heartbreaking part is that most of the time, you cannot see it either. You are standing there trying to get back to a woman who no longer exists, blaming yourself for not finding her.

I think that is what happened to the woman who didn't show. I think she booked the call from the clear moment, and then the fog came back, and the old judgment came with it. Who am I to take up someone's time? Who am I to make this big a deal? I shouldn’t need help to get over my pain. I should be over this by now. And she could not lift the phone.

If that is you, if you have ever reached for help and then could not go through with it, I want you to hear this.

You did not fail.

You reached.

That counts, even if you could not follow it the whole way.

And the door did not close behind you.

You can always reach again.

And here is the thing I most need you to know. The thing I wish someone had handed me in my early grief when I was certain I was doing all of it wrong.

Your grief is worth it.

It is worth the time. It is worth the effort. It is worth your tears and your hard days.

You feel it this deeply because you love that deeply. And your grief is worth it for exactly the same reason your love is.

You do not have to earn the right to hurt this much. You already have it.

Gary is worth my grief.

Your person is worth yours.

And so are you.

If you have been hovering over a decision to reach out, or if you booked something once and could not come, there is no shame waiting here, only a chair held open.

Schedule a free Holding the Ember call whenever you are ready.

And if the fog rolls back in before we talk, that is okay.

You can reach again.

I will still be here.