Someone called me resilient and said it like a compliment. I said thanks (because that’s what you say) and then I went home and got mad about it.
I (rudely) learned about grief in my childhood. I was 8 when cancer took my leg. I was 9 when my heart stopped (twice). I’ve grieved friends and family who didn’t survive their own cancer battle. I’ve grieved my younger self. I grieved a marriage, miscarriage, and a relationship that ended simply because we wanted different things out of life.
Nobody wakes up and says, “I want to be resilient today.” It isn’t a choice. It’s a side effect of survival. We become resilient because what other option is there? My sparkling “resilience” turned into numb tolerance and I stayed in a relationship that loved the idea of me, not the actual person.
Surviving isn’t the same as being okay. We don’t discover resilience because of grief. We become resilient by learning how to cope and get through grief. Sometimes the only place that leads is burnout. Running the same coping mechanism on repeat until everything breaks.
Personally, I collapsed, shut down, went quiet. I don’t have a five-step plan for processing grief, but I do know that the person I’m becoming is grounded, solid. She’s empathetic and insightful, but she’s not easy to manipulate.
She’s someone who isn’t measured by how much she can carry, but by how quickly she puts things down when it’s not hers to own.
I’ve carried grief like a badge and someone needs to say it: Surviving everything doesn’t mean you’re fine. It just means you survived.
Try selling that on a coffee mug.