The Tunnel

If I could put my grief into a picture, this is what it would look like.

I have been dropped into a tunnel so dark that I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

And the floor isn’t just dark. It is covered in this thick, black, sticky muck.

I can hear it squishing beneath my feet as I walk.

Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I have to stand still because I simply don’t know what is in front of me. I can’t see far enough ahead to know what I’m walking toward, or what I might run into that could cause even more pain than I’m already carrying.

So I move slowly.

Cautiously.

I lift one foot, and the muck pulls at it.

It sticks to the bottom of my feet, and when I try to take the next step, it feels like it is pulling me backward and down.

But I keep moving.

Not because I can see where I’m going.

Not because I know when the tunnel will end.

I keep moving because I have hope.

Somewhere in this darkness, I believe there is a light.

Right now, I imagine it might be no bigger than a lightning bug.

Just the tiniest little glimmer.

Maybe I won’t see it today.

Maybe tomorrow I still won’t see it.

But I keep taking another step.

And another.

And maybe, as I move forward, that tiny light will begin to grow.

Maybe eventually it will be big enough that I can see my hand in front of my face.

I may still be standing in the black muck.

I may still be inside the tunnel.

But I will be able to see a little farther than I could before.

And that is what hope means to me.

Hope isn’t pretending the darkness isn’t there.

Hope isn’t believing that grief will disappear.

Hope is taking another step when I can’t see where the next one will land.

Hope is what I see in the people around me who have been in this tunnel before. Some are still in it. They are simply further along in their journey, in a different part of the tunnel, seeing things I cannot see yet.

And that has taught me something about grief.

You can walk through the tunnel with someone.

You can hold their hand.

You can love each other deeply and try to help one another through the darkness.

But you cannot walk the exact same tunnel.

Even when two people are grieving the same person, their tunnels are different.

Their memories are different.

Their relationship was different.

Their pain is different.

Their pace is different.

One person may be a little farther ahead. Another may be further behind. One may have a day where they can see a little light, while the other is standing in complete darkness.

Neither one is doing it wrong.

They are simply somewhere different.

So maybe grief isn’t about finding a way out of the tunnel.

Maybe, for now, it is about continuing to move through it.

One careful step at a time.

Even when the muck pulls me backward.

Even when I can’t see.

Even when I’m afraid of what might be ahead.

I will keep moving.

Because somewhere in this darkness, there is a tiny light.

And I don’t need to see it yet to believe it exists.

For now, hope is enough to take the next step.