People have called us strong. From family to friends, the word “strong” was given to us by multiple people. I don’t disagree; we ARE strong. But it did make me me wonder what strength actually was. When I agree that we are strong, what does that mean?

Strength is not being stoic. It is not about a quick recovery. It is not a lack of emotion impact. It is not an absence of tears. It is not pushing to move on, it is not pushing past it. It is not pretending it didn’t happen. It is not going through it alone.

Strength is giving permission to ourselves to feel how we feel. It is crying when we need it, as hard as we need to. It is talking openly about the various thoughts that come to mind, even if putting them into words and speaking them aloud makes us cry. It is naming how we feel in whatever vocabulary seems right at the time, knowing that these feelings are normal and to be expected.

It is allowing each other to process our grief in whichever way suits each of us. It is writing when we need it and tidying up when we need that. It’s cutting each other some slack while knowing that some things will still need to be done regardless of how we feel. It is sometimes allowing ourselves to be distracted from our feelings or thoughts while other times allowing each other to just sit with our emotional discomfort.

It is allowing ourselves to take our time, one day at a time, one step at a time. It is noticing how we are doing and letting each other know when things are getting too much. It is being open and honest about what we can handle.

It is walking a tightrope between protecting ourselves but still allowing some things to hit us hard. It is knowing that random things might bring sad or confronting thoughts, and it is only in encountering them that we better understand our grief.

It is being able to ask for help when it is needed. It is accepting it when it is offered.

It is setting boundaries that keep us safe but that also clearly communicate to others what we will find helpful. It is allowing ourselves to be alone when we need it, or asking for company when we need that. It is answering honestly when we are asked how we are... except maybe when it comes from an unsuspecting grocery store checkout person.

It is humor. It is allowing laughter. It is patient optimism. It is knowing that breaking down is okay and expected. It is an unyielding belief that we will eventually be okay.

It is knowing that we are better together, stronger together. It is allowing this pain to bring us closer together. It is giving us permission for our “normal” to change, believing that we will be okay once it has settled in.

It is knowing that grief is love, that we would not feel this way if we did not love what we have lost. It is knowing that we are sad for ourselves, each other, and the other people who love us. It is an awareness that sadness is only one piece of how we feel, in and amongst a complex, interwoven web of intense emotion.

It is attempting to find meaning within an unspeakable tragedy. It is gratitude for the support and resources we have. It is exploring ways of letting our pain alleviate that of others in any way. It is accepting what we cannot control while empowering ourselves to take action where we can.

Strength is a complicated word that means lots of different things to different people. I do reject that silent stoicism is in any way representative of strength, but that’s just me. I reckon letting yourself feel what you feel in the moment arguably takes courage, and I’m proud of both Blake and I for giving each other the safety to do just that.

I couldn’t help but notice that certain words kept popping up as I was writing this - allowing, giving permission, knowing, believing. I think it’s fairly indicative of what strength is to me.

Don’t feel like you need to be strong for us. *We* are strong enough for us. Feel what you feel, along with us. Grief, like most things, is easier when shared.