Dear grieving mother,
I'm truly sorry to hear about the profound loss you've experienced. I don't know how to comfort you through this unfathomable pain except to share my story of loss with you.
I know this may not be what you want to hear right now, but your journey will hurt more than anything you could have imagined. I also want you to know that, though the pain you feel is beyond excruciating, in navigating the depths of your grief, you will find transformation. You will discover your resilience. You will find little miracles and profound comfort in the dark, and you will rediscover the light.
Our departed loved ones want us to know that, despite the pain their passing has caused, they have so much love for us that they would never abandon us without leaving cosmic realisations waiting to be unlocked and multiple blessings in their wake.
My experience of this same relentless pain began when my healthy and happy son unexpectedly suicided in December 2019, coinciding with the onset of the Covid pandemic. I groped around in the dark for months, a mere shell of my former self. Nothing made sense. I called out repeatedly to my son in this darkness—my boy, my boy—and I cried so much I wished I could drown in this river of grief.
By March, I managed to crawl out of my confusion and grief and leave the house occasionally for healing walks in the park with a friend who had gently beckoned to my brokenness. She allowed me to talk, cry, remain silent, or scream. At this point, the simple act of shopping brought on fits of sobbing in the grocery aisles as I encountered food items my son once enjoyed. I was a newborn, a toddler, not able to meet my own needs, boundless in my sorrow.
This lasted for months. It felt like I was falling through an endless black hole, intensely lost. Words cannot really express this pain, this condition of feeling limbless, hollow, bereft.
I know how you feel, and partly, I wish I could take it all away. And yet, there is a whole other side to this pain that I want to share with you.
During our walks, my friend and I noticed the increasing plight of homelessness and a growing number of people having to live in the park because of the pandemic and the subsequent loss of jobs. This realisation prompted us to initiate a feeding scheme. Every Sunday, I prepared hot meals, and we distributed them in our neighbourhood park. The initiative eventually expanded to Norwood, receiving support from local businesses. It was the dead of winter, and soon donated blankets and clothing formed part of our distribution.
I realise now that this endeavour held me for two years, providing focus beyond my personal grief. It saved my life. However, as my workload increased and my film work took me out of Johannesburg, I had to step back. My amazing friend, Lorraine Chitters Silverman, took over the soup kitchen on her own, ensuring its continuity and growth.
Looking back, amidst the ongoing struggle to survive the loss of my son, I found solace in helping others. It seemed to open up a channel of discovering little miracles and nurtured my spiritual growth. It cracked open my cocoon of pain and let the light in. My son was always kind to people who found themselves destitute and living on the streets. His friends regaled me with stories about how he shared food, a smoke, stories, and laughter with anyone who crossed his path. It felt like an initiative manifested by him.
And while the initial months without him were often a hellish out-of-body experience, within this pain, I somehow found plentiful comforting signs from my son, healing, and spiritual growth.
Despite this progress and growth over the four years since he transitioned, there are still days that shatter me. I know that the loss has become a permanent feature of my existence, and there is no warning as to when I will break open in unfettered grief.
At the same time, I know how this journey has transformed me in ways so astoundingly emancipatory that it has exploded my view of most things. I also sense that our departed loved ones wish for our well-being and self-discovery. They are part of this journey that breaks apart our old structure to replace it with fluidity and renewed vision. They are the transformed and loving energy that surrounds us.
What became abundantly clear to me is that God, Goddess, Yahweh, Source, Atma, Creator, Allah, Universal Om, or the Great Unmanifest is pure love. Indeed, pure love is our only purpose because there is no separation between us and the Source of that love.
We each have our own experience, and there are no rules around what constitutes transformation. A fleeting moment of peace or the smallest act of kindness to yourself and those around you carries as much healing as any action. It happens as it should, for you.
I want you to trust in the process and know that, moments away, you'll feel love again, more intensely than ever before. That is what loss does to us. It eventually lets the light in. This intense and inevitable period of loss, pain, and mourning is a crucial part of that journey back to self-realisation. It is the love our departed have left for us.
Dear mother of a transitioned child, may you find the light, reclaim good memories, and rediscover your true self on this path of loss, no matter how long this journey takes. May you feel the sweet nectar of the love that surrounds you, and may you take comfort in this love.
Om Shanti 🦋
From: Gillian Schutte
* Gillian is making a film on her son's life and departure called Life of Kai. She is also working on a book called Way of Kai, which explores healing after losing a child as well as after-death communication and the subject of this article.
** Speaking to mothers directly does not exclude fathers, siblings, friends, and relatives. A mother's loss is particular and one I’m interested in addressing as a mother. However, the same message applies to all. 💜
** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.