Hello and welcome to Dear grief guide.
A podcast where each week I answer one anonymous letter from a listener feeling lost, stuck,
heartbroken or overwhelmed in the midst of grief.
My name is Shelby Fercitya.
I'm a grief coach and author and I'm here to help you create a life you love from the
life lost forced you to live.
Let's get to today's letter.
Dear grief guide.
I'm in the darkest place I have ever been.
My journey toward parenthood has been a tumultuous one marked by the crushing weight of multiple
miscarriages and the heart wrenching decisions to end not one but two pregnancies due to
medical complications that meant my growing babies would not survive outside my body.
I feel burned out at a soul level and I'm depleted in every sense of the word.
People around me, especially my close girlfriends, urge me to get back on the horse and continue
my quest for a family.
Some of them have had miscarriages and losses of their own and have gone on to have healthy
babies.
Sometimes, I picture them like glowing perfect cheerleaders calling to me from the horizon
after riding their own horses into a beautiful sunset.
I want what they have, but my metaphorical horse is difficult and elusive, throwing me
off time and time again.
Age failed attempt leaves emotional and physical scars that run deep.
The exhaustion I feel is overwhelming.
I'm surrounded by people telling me to keep going, but how can I, when every step feels
like navigating a minefield?
Brief guide, I don't know how to go on.
Having my eyes open to the reality of what could happen if my next attempt fails makes me
bulk at climbing back up on the horse and trying again.
Any motivation or hope I had at the beginning of my journey has disappeared.
I have desire, yes, a continual ache for the family I dream of in my head.
But strength, will, resilience, I'm afraid those wells dried up long ago.
If you have anything to say about when the going gets tough and tougher than tough, I'd
love to hear from you.
Signed, "Lone Rider."
Oh, "Lone Rider."
Your story reminds me very much of somebody that I worked with a few years ago on a one-on-one
basis.
Her grief experience, her loss experience was so similar to yours.
And this phrase, I can't believe you used this phrase, "Get Back On The Horse."
Was one that we devoted a whole session to.
Because I think other people in her life were pressuring her to get back on the horse,
but also sometimes too.
And we can blame this on the society that we live in.
There's an internal pressure.
Pull yourself up and get back on the horse and try, try again.
There's a mixing of a lot of metaphors there.
But the underlying message is don't give up because if you don't get back on the horse,
if you don't pull yourself up, if you don't try, try again, then you have failed and that
sentence of failure is forever.
And that is bad and that is undesirable.
And that makes you insert adjective here.
What does that make you?
Something not good.
According to society, people around you, maybe even to that judgmental voice in your head.
What we landed on in our session together and something I love talking about now is this
permission slip to not get back on the horse.
Like what if you didn't?
What if you just hung out there in the dirt for a little while?
And it doesn't have to be forever and it doesn't have to be bad or dark or even cold or messy.
There's a lot you can do when you're on the ground to expand that metaphor.
You can build a fire.
You can pitch a tent.
You can wave below to all the other people riding by on their horses.
You can watch that world go by.
You can go bird watching.
You can sing a song.
You can assume the fetal position and cry.
You can invite somebody to sit down in the dirt with you.
It's much easier to sit together when you're not in motion on horse.
I think that society in the world that we live in sometimes views not getting back on the
horse as a sign that you've given up and that it's over and you've stopped trying.
But sometimes too what we need when we are so exhausted, so depleted as you say in every
sense of the word is a break from the trying.
It's even to make an effort not just to get the result but even to make an effort to begin
a journey like this.
Takes so much out of us.
It asks so much of us.
It demands so much of us, especially emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritual, I'm covering
yeah, all four bases here.
I wonder what would happen for you, lone rider, if you gave yourself permission to have some
sort of sabbatical from your journey towards parenthood.
And the reason I'm framing it this way as a sabbatical and not of river in the dirt is because
that may not actually be what you want.
You say you do want this, you have this dream, you have this desire and I don't think that
you're trying has to be consistent or perpetual.
I think for as much as you've tried, you can also try resting for a little bit and I'm always
framing it in this way for a little bit for a little while for a season, for the time
being, until further notice.
What would that look like to nourish yourself in other ways?
If you would like to use it for redirection, you certainly can.
Are there other dreams you have?
Are there dreams that have gone neglected because of this hard, fast, bucking ride you've
been taking towards parenthood?
Maybe you'd like to explore, but if not, those things are effortful too.
Maybe just a rest and a deep breath and a season where no trying, no expenditure is required
of you is exactly what the grief guide ordered for the season of your life.
And while you're here, something I'm going to ask you to do is write letters to hope.
You said that any motivation or hope you had at the beginning of this journey has disappeared.
And I wonder what it would feel like for you to write letters to hope, that elusive thing,
especially in the darkness of grief and they don't have to be soft either.
When you are down in the dirt and hope is abandoned to you or hope is dried up, you're allowed
to be mad at hope for disappearing, for ghosting you, for blessing all these other people,
while leaving your hands and your arms empty.
You are allowed to demand that it come back.
You are allowed to mourn its absence.
Yeah, get creative with your letters to hope.
Even one letter doesn't have to be serious.
You can write one letter to hope.
But I wonder what it would look like for you to take a pause and to write to this entity
that has gone missing.
And what would happen to if you then assumed the posture of hope and hope wrote back from
wherever it is in the world in the universe?
Where do you imagine it's gone to?
How does it see you right now?
What does it want for you?
Loan writer does hope have a wish or a hope for you?
And it needs you to know in the season of your life, in the darkest place you have ever been.
So I encourage you not from a lazy space, not from a giving up space, not from a resigned
space, from a very aware and conscious space.
If you are this exhausted, if you are this overwhelmed, if you are this tired.
You chill out in the dirt for a little while.
Let that horse go have some grass.
Come back later.
Pitch attempt build a fire and invite so many people to sit here with you in the waiting,
in the recovering.
As you refill these reserves that are so depleted for you.
And in the waiting if you're looking for something to do, write to hope.
Write can handle all of your emotions, anger, despondency, overwhelm, frustration, sadness,
grief, all of it, hope can handle all of it.
And when you have the strength to, or feel the urge to, consider how hope might write
back to you.
May you in this space.
Know that you are not the only one down here in the dirt who is tired from trying and trying
and trying.
May you know also that there are so many more horses to ride.
This last one that bucked you off was not the last horse that will ever be in the world.
Somehow there is a magical supply of horses to be had.
And also too may you know that whatever decision you make right now to rest, to chill out in
the dirt for a little while, to be still, instead of constantly pursuing that beautiful sunset
horizon, does not have to be forever.
It can be just for right now as you restore, as you nourish, as you reorient to where you'd
like to go next and what will fulfill and sustain you on that next journey from this place,
from here, knowing always that even when you are in the dirt on the ground, not on the horse,
that there is growth happening, that there is witnessing happening of yourself and your
grief and your heart and your pain and your progress.
And that there is movement.
Thank you so much for joining me today.
If you are ready to start moving forward after a loss, consider joining my online course
in community, Life After a Loss Academy.
There you'll find video lessons you can work through at your own pace, weekly live calls
where I take your questions and a welcoming community to talk about grief with others who
understand.
You can find the link to learn more and join today in the show notes.
If this podcast helped you feel a littleness alone in your grief, please subscribe and
leave a review on Apple podcasts, Spotify or wherever you listen.
And be sure to share your grief guide with a friend, because you never know what someone
you love is going through.
You can submit your anonymous letter for the show and find additional grief support at
shelbyforSythea.com.
Music for Dear Grief Guide is performed by Addy Goldstein, editing by Ruth Spence of
Sinivia.
Until next time, I see you.
I'm so proud of you and the work that you're doing in the world.
And I love you.
Because even through grief, we are growing.
Music for Dear Grief Guide.
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