on inserting yourself into grief

Inserting Yourself Into GriefSometimes there are things that happen that don’t make sense. Trying to understand the why’s and how’s is exhausting and infuriating. What sits here is sadness. Deep, deep sadness. I am not a lawyer nor will I claim to be any sort of expert at law or the events of the trial or the night of the death of young Trayvon Martin. I am simply a mother.

I am a white mother with a white son and my grief and sorrow and perceived injustice are as big as I can comprehend and yet it is nothing. It is a drop of water in the ocean of grief and bone-weary pain that a mother with a black son or daughter is feeling right now. I sit here with my head shaking and my fingers furiously typing to find the next essay or article to email or share on my social wall but when I look at my son I do not gasp with fear the way I hear so many gasping for the future of their children today.

I want to jump into the rush of emotions and offer support and encircle friends who are aching today with unconditional love. I wrote to friends last night and it felt like the right thing to do.

Today it feels obnoxious. How dare I?

I can never understand what it means to feel this dread, this angst, this panic, this fear. That I dared insert myself into other people’s grief is pathetic.

And yet I grieve. I am not a black mother. I will never know, fully know, truly know. But I am sorry for your loss.