Moving Forward, Not Moving On

I’ve heard people say the second year of grief can be harder than the first.

That has always been difficult for me to believe. How could anything be harder than that first year?

The first year was painful in a very particular way. Everything was new. There was a first birthday without Alex, a first Christmas, a first Father’s Day, a first anniversary. There was a first time doing almost everything without him.

Everything hurt.

Now there are still firsts, but there aren’t nearly as many of them. Instead, I seem to have settled into something else.

Meh.

That was Alex’s answer to almost everything.

“How are you doing?”

“Meh.”

And lately, that is probably the best way I can describe how I feel most of the time.

The waves of grief still come. Sometimes they hit hard and without warning. But outside of those moments, I don’t feel like I get as low as I did before.

I also don’t feel the same highs.

The peaks and valleys seem to have moved closer together. There are fewer extremes, and most of life seems to exist somewhere in the middle now.

Meh.

I can still be happy. I can laugh. I can sing in the car. I can have a good day.

But it doesn’t feel the same as it did before.

Maybe that is part of what people mean when they say the second year is harder.

The first year had shock, disbelief and numbness wrapped around so much of it. I sometimes wonder if I spent that entire year just moving through life on autopilot because my brain still couldn’t fully understand what had happened.

Now the reality feels different.

It isn’t the first Christmas without Alex anymore.

It is another Christmas without Alex.

Another birthday.

Another Father’s Day.

Another anniversary.

And somewhere along the way, other people begin returning to their lives too.

People stop checking in as often. They stop asking how you’re doing. The world keeps moving, and eventually you learn how to answer “I’m fine” even on a day when you are missing your son terribly.

Maybe I’ve become better at hiding it.

Maybe people assume that because time has passed, things have gotten easier.

I’m not sure either is really true.

I know one thing, though.

I will never “move on” from what happened.

I don’t want to move on.

That phrase has never felt right to me.

Moving on sounds like leaving something behind.

Moving forward feels different.

Moving forward means continuing to live while carrying Alex with me.

I will never leave my sons behind.

Lately I have been trying to understand what carrying Alex with me actually looks like.

A few days ago I was in the shower when grief took over again. I found myself talking to him.

I told him that I have all of this love for him and nowhere for it to go.

It is something I hear parents say all the time in my grief groups.

You spend your child’s entire life loving them in physical, ordinary ways.

You hug them.

You talk to them.

You buy them something because it reminded you of them.

You sit beside them.

You hear their voice.

You tell them you love them.

Then suddenly you are left with exactly the same amount of love, maybe even more, but so many of the places you used to put that love are gone.

As I stood there, I felt something from Alex.

Not as vivid or direct as another experience I’ve had, but still something.

“Love isn’t physical.”

That was what came to me.

I don’t need to physically hug him for my love for him to exist.

I don’t need to be able to hand him something, hear his voice or have him standing in front of me for me to continue loving him.

The love is still here.

Maybe it just has to find different places to go.

The other day I was having lunch when I saw a flyer for a suicide awareness walk.

I knew almost immediately that I was going to do it.

The walk is Saturday, and several of my friends are coming with me.

Putting together a team page for Alex was hard. Really hard.

But it also felt like something I needed to do.

I’m glad I’m doing it.

I’m glad I found another way to say his name, to honor him, and to carry him with me.

There is also a cycling event next month that I have been thinking about doing.

I recently finished and ordered my custom cycling kit, and it looks like I will have it before the ride.

The event offers several different distances, and I have gone back and forth about which one to choose.

I think I finally know.

Forty-five miles.

One mile for every second represented in the statistic that someone dies by suicide about every 45 seconds around the world.

Not because riding a bike fixes anything.

It doesn’t.

Neither does a walk.

Neither does writing this.

Nothing fixes this.

But these are places I can put some of that love.

I can walk with Alex.

I can ride with Alex.

I can wear his name.

I can tell his story.

I can try to raise awareness.

I can keep finding ways to make sure he is still part of my life, because he is.

He always will be.

If I could trade every walk, every ride, every fundraiser and every word I will ever write about him for one more hug, I would.

Without hesitation.

That’s where I still want that love to go.

But I can’t put it there.

So I’m learning to put it other places.

Maybe that’s what moving forward looks like for me.

Not moving on.

Not leaving him behind.

Just carrying him differently.

I still don’t know if the second year is harder than the first.

Maybe harder isn’t the right word.

It’s different.

It’s quieter.

It feels more permanent.

More real.

And most days?

Meh…

I think Alex would understand.