“Never compare your insides to everyone else’s outsides.” ― Anne Lamott
“I know that.”—Nathan Thurm
A few weeks ago, a beautiful, present, insightful friend sent me this podcast episode. I forgot about it until a few minutes ago, when I finally listened. Interesting timing, because I watched the Martin Short documentary, “Marty, Life is Short,” last night. There was so much I loved about the doc. I cried multiple times. Duh. Martin Short seems to be a beautiful human—full of joy, optimism, resilience, kindness, and just so brilliant-funny. I wish we could meet. He’s had so much loss in his life, including the very recent, tragic death of his daughter (which, I’m guessing, happened after the film was completed). That said, I’m also processing parts of it that have left me with a vague unease. I wondered whether this nebulousness pointed to self-judgment. Like: “Wow, Marty is a better/stronger human because he’s doing grief right. Look how he bounces back! I’m getting grief wrong!”
After listening to this podcast, the fog has lifted, and yes, I see that I compared myself to Martin Short overnight.
That’s not helpful.
We’re all individuals, bespoke; we’ve all experienced diverse traumas; our losses are wildly different because every relationship is unique, and some losses are “simply” more complicated and layered. Not better, not worse, different. I have no doubt Martin Short wouldn’t pull a defensive “Nathan Thurm.” He wouldn’t want me to compare my grief journey to his; he’s too sweet for that.
In the podcast, I particularly like the part toward the end when they’re talking about grief timelines (“Are you better yet??”), people trying to fix your feelings, and “intention versus impact.” Oh, how we have deified intention! I could tell you some doozies about the “encouragement” I’ve personally gotten, like inappropriate, random, out-of-context, out-of-touch joking and silly memes, and being told to look at the glass half full right after Joey died. Yes, that happened. These attempts to take me out of my pain only served to distance and isolate me and show that they really don’t know.
I tell you this because I love you. We need better skills to help people who are hurting.
Like Pete Greig.
I discovered the book “God on Mute” by Pete Greig, and I’ve been re-listening to it on a loop. I can’t get enough of it, and I can’t recommend it enough (make sure to get the updated paper copy or the audiobook). It’s potentially a game-changer, if not a life-changer. Excavating that book might need to be a different post, but holy moly, is it a good earthquake. It does fit here in the context of grief, trust me.
And I do love you.
But we can do better.