The Invisible Load: Part B
On carrying your grief and everyone else’s reaction to it
Sometimes when I say Kensleigh’s name, I notice my body tense. I never quite know how someone else will respond to hearing me talk about her.
I see the small reactions. A jaw tightening. Someone glancing away. A head turning in my direction. It’s subtle, but I can feel the shift in the room. Most people don’t know what to say.
Oftentimes, I find myself giving others permission before they even ask. “It’s okay to talk about Kensleigh,” I’ll say, usually with a smile so they know I mean it. So they feel comfortable. So they understand that I want to talk about My Girl.
Grief becomes something you curate.
I adjust my responses based on what I have capacity for and depending on the setting. A large group requires a different version of me than an intimate conversation. I prepare answers for basic questions before I even arrive.
How was your weekend?
How’s Marcus and Kairo?
How’s Kenton?
What do you need?
On car rides to gatherings, especially with people who may not know, Kenton and I strategize. How do we want to handle questions? Do we give the short answer or the fuller one? What’s our signal if one of us needs out?
When I enter a space, I identify the exit or the restroom in case I need to step away.
Even small things require planning. If we’re celebrating something with family, I might ask someone else to contact the baker because the last time she saw me, I was pregnant. I know she’ll ask. And I cannot bear to tell that story in that moment.
Sometimes it’s simpler to avoid the interaction altogether. At events, if I see birth workers, doulas, lactation consultants, I instinctively turn the other way. I know the questions that come next. How many children? Are you done? Did you nurse them all?
They don’t expect the answer I would have to give.
So at times, I shrink myself to make the room more comfortable. I choose the version of my story that causes the least disruption.
What wears me down isn’t always the obvious pain. It’s the day-to-day parts. The adjusting. The anticipation. The preparing. It gives “who all is going to be there?” a new meaning.
By the time I get home, I feel a level of exhaustion sleep won’t fix. I replay the gathering in my head. Did I say enough about Kensleigh? Did I say too much? Did I make her proud? Did I make anyone uncomfortable?
Recently, I’ve started to notice this pattern. I catch myself asking, why do I feel like I have to show up as if I have it all together? Why am I adding to my own load? Why am I carrying other people’s anxiety about my grief?
I don’t blame anyone for not knowing what to say. Not long ago, I didn’t know what to say either. I’m still learning. But I’m beginning to realize that understanding someone’s discomfort doesn’t mean I have to absorb it.
I’m still figuring out what it looks like to stop carrying the extra weight.
❤️❤️❤️