“Progress doesn’t mean feeling less, Shea.”

I find myself feeling afraid of my own emotions. Afraid of crying. Afraid of going back to a dark place where I felt sadness like I had never known and I felt it alone. For as far as I’ve come, I still feel like I have such a long way to go, and that feels exhausting.

Therapy. I highly recommend it.

When I got my first taste of grief, I was totally and completely overwhelmed with my emotions. They caught me so off guard in the beginning, I just wanted to hide away. The bomb could detonate at any moment and I didn’t want feel exposed. Crying in your car feels appropriate, crying in a restaurant at the dinner rush does not.

Crying in public places can feel like being in a crowed room, stark naked. All eyes examining every part of your body, especially the ones that you feel the most tender about. The parts that we are most horrified by are the parts that are the softest. The ones that show the most scars. The ones that protrude or sag. The ones that you only let your partner see in their full glory. The parts that you tuck away, so that the world won’t deem them to be more imperfect than you have already claimed them to be. But these are our softest parts. Our most sacred parts. The parts that our children snuggle into when they want to cuddle. The curves that lend safety to the people you love.  The parts that make a big hug feel so good, the kind that you just sink into. 

Suddenly, there they are. All your softest parts on display for every millennial mom toting a toddler around in and sipping her coffee without a (seemingly) care in the world. She’s got on her matching work out outfit and her crossbody fanny pack, hair perfectly twirled into a claw clip, fresh faced and well-rested. She’s an instagram post in real life. Someone who would most likely be horrified to be crying in the promise land of Target. 

And there I am. 

Face splotchy red, lips slightly swollen (not from injections, just a perk of being a chronic sad girl), tears eroding the skin under my eyes. 

I wipe the tears from my cheeks and feel the mysterious skin flare I’m having around my nose. It’s super cute and it’s not going away. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself. Hair slicked back in the oil that has built up from not washing it for an ungodly amount of time, stain from who knows what on the front of my sweatshirt that I’m wearing for the third day in a row. 

Did I brush my teeth this morning? Who cares. 

Dammit. I forgot the return I needed to make. Again.

I can barely remember myself these days. 

He’s crying for a snack. You forgot that too. Looks like we’re pulling from the shelves for another snack emergency.

Oh my fucking god. My nose is running. I don’t have a tissue and OH LOOK! No wipes. I forgot them at home. Not a surprise. Chances are my toddler is going to take my iced coffee from the cup holder when I’m not looking and dump it on the ground. Or vomit. Cause why not when I don’t have anything to clean up with?

This is grief in forward motion. This is grief when you have shit to do and kids to feed and Christmas presents to buy. Coffee will still be spilled, groceries will still need to be gotten, motherly duties still to be done, and yet, no one will know the energy it took to just throw that sweatshirt on, get your kid dressed and join the land of the living. 

Grief in forward motion is made of the things that only people with superhuman strength can endure and for that, you get to cry at Target. You get to cry anywhere you damn well please. 

It’s like the second our eyes well up, we suddenly feel exposed. Our soft underbelly pointing to the sky like a turtle flipped on its shell, little legs flailing around, desperate for our backs to be pointing to the sun, afraid that if we stay here, we’ll be hit by a truck in the road. 

Newsflash, you’ve already been hit by the truck. The scary thing already happened.

 Just let yourself be. However you need, whenever you need. 

The people who get it, get it. The people who don’t, will most likely know soon enough. 

Trust that your best is enough for each day. Maybe your best will be a bit better tomorrow, maybe it’ll be a bit worse, but if it’s the best you’ve got, you’re doing a damn good job. 

Cry at Target. Or the grocery store. Or the post office. Or in your car. Or in line at TJMaxx. It’s okay that you saw the dad shopping with his teenage daughters and it almost ripped your heart out of your body because you won’t ever go shopping with your dad again. You can shed some tears for that. 

That’s BRUTAL. 

Everyday, you are surrounded by reminders of what was, what could have been and what will never be again. You have earned the right to cry, anywhere and everywhere. Surviving loss like that is something to be acknowledged. Over and over again. There is no limit, you’ll feel it for the rest of your life, so invite it in, give it the space its due and keep going the best you can. 

It’s your grief, baby. Cry if you want to.