How grief plants the seeds of who we are next

Bonni Suckling beautifully reflects on how grief has planted the seeds of the person she is today, quietly awarding her invisible medals every day. 

In June I crossed the finish line of my ninth Comrades Marathon. Nine. Even saying that out loud feels a little surreal because every single year, somewhere around 70km, I become absolutely convinced that this was a terrible life choice. Like…the worst ever.

Then something magical happens. You catch a peep of the finish line. Now, my friends, there is nothing glamorous about  the Comrades finish. NOTHING! It looks like a war zone. Thousands of broken, limping soldiers, wrapped in silver space blankets, are wandering around lost yet euphoric. Nobody looks pretty. Everyone smells questionable.

But every face is smiling. Why? Because the finish line means you have made it. The hard part is over. A stranger hangs what is essentially a little coin on a string around your  neck and suddenly you feel like you have conquered the world.

We humans love finish lines

We count down to birthdays, holidays, retirement and, for families affected by cancer, often the last chemotherapy treatment. We tell ourselves If I can just get there…because we believe there will be relief waiting on the other side.

Outrunning grief

I think that’s why, after my son Jed died, I spent years trying to outrun my grief. I was Forrest Gumping heartache. Never really knowing where I was trying to get to. The funny thing about trying to outrun grief is that no matter how fast you run, grief has already crossed the finish line and is quietly waiting for you there.

So, I kept searching. Maybe after his funeral? Maybe after the first Christmas (when there wasn’t even a tree)? Maybe after his birthday? After the first year?

One year quietly became five. Five became 10. This year became almost 15. The strangest thing about grief is that it feels like yesterday and 15 years ago at the same time. It’s all mushed together. 

I realised you can’t outrun grief. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, or how hard  you train. How busy you keep yourself. How many books you read. How many  tears you cry. There is no finish line. There is no medal waiting at the end.

Grief isn’t a race

Oddly enough, accepting that became one of the most freeing moments of my grief. I stopped comparing my journey to everyone else’s. I stopped wondering why someone else seemed to be further ahead in healing and I was stuck in complicated grief. But grief isn’t a race. It’s love with nowhere to go. While I was busy looking  for a finish line, grief was quietly handing me different medals. 

The invisible medals

Nobody clapped the first time I walked past the boys’ toy aisle and saw Buzz Lightyear (Jed’s favourite toy) without falling apart. There wasn’t a medal the first time I saw a little six-year-old boy with wild curls and chubby cheeks and managed to smile instead of cry. Nobody cheered the first time I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself before guilt came running after me. 

There wasn’t a podium waiting for me the day I realised I’d spent an entire afternoon talking about Jed and, somehow, for the first time, the smiles outnumbered the tears. Those were medals too. They just didn’t come on ribbons. And somehow…they became the most beautiful medals of all.

When hope joins in walking with grief

Then one day a newly bereaved parent sat opposite me. I didn’t have the right words. There aren’t any. But I knew how to stay. I knew how to sit in the silence without trying to fill it. I knew that sometimes the greatest gift you can give another grieving parent is simply not being afraid of their pain. That is when I realised something  had changed.

Not my love. Never my love. Not even my grief. My grief is still there because my love is still there. But somewhere along the route, hope had quietly joined us. It didn’t arrive with fireworks. It didn’t knock on the door. It didn’t announce itself. It simply started walking beside my grief.

I still wish I could tell Jed about my ninth Comrades medal; I wonder if he would be proud? I wish I could tell him how many kilometres his memory has carried me through. In the darkest parts of the race, I feel him with me. I can picture his wild curly hair bouncing beside me, Keep going, mama, you got this! 

The seeds grief planted

I miss my son more than words will ever explain. I always will. But maybe that’s exactly the point. The finish line I spent years looking for doesn’t exist because my love for him doesn’t have one either.

Instead, grief has quietly planted something I never expected. Compassion. Courage. Patience. Perspective. Hope. Not the loud, dramatic kind of hope that tells us everything happens for a reason. The quieter gentle kind.

Perhaps grief never intended to give us a finish line after all. Perhaps the greatest medals we will ever earn aren’t made of metal. Perhaps they’re the ordinary, invisible victories nobody else sees. Walking past Buzz Lightyear. Laughing without apologising. Saying your child’s name with more smiles than tears. Holding another grieving person’s hand because someone once held yours.

Maybe those are our medals. And if you are reading this while wondering where your finish line is, perhaps stop looking for it. Instead, look for today’s medal.

It might be much smaller than you expected. Maybe today your medal was simply getting out of bed, even though your heart feels completely broken. Maybe it was having a shower. Maybe it was making a cup of tea. Maybe it was saying your child’s name out loud.

Or maybe it was simply getting through today. Those are medals too. And I promise you…they are enough.

Bonni Suckling is the founder of Rainbows and Smiles Foundation. In 2022, she completed her Paediatric Post Grad Diploma, a testament to her dedication to improving paediatric healthcare. She has played a pivotal role in establishing paediatric palliative care support groups, offering solace and guidance to families. She is also a gym instructor and endurance athlete.

Header image by Freepik