Grief. It hits at the strangest times. Sitting here on the beach gazing into the mud flats exposed by the low tide, Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” comes onto my headphones. Immediately, everyone no longer in my life comes to mind. Some dead, some alive, some I parted ways with, some who parted ways with me. It makes my eyes start filling up with tears.
Today though, there was another person I am deeply grieving…the person I used to be before my ego vanished and my former identity died. The person I was before I became sober. The guy who was the life of the party. That could make anyone smile and bring anyone joy. Even when it meant completely losing himself in the process. Even when everything went fucking wrong.
I wish he was here.
Not because I want to go back to that old life, but because we were best friends for 42 years. We did everything together. We shared every good moment, every bad time, and knew every secret. And one day, he was suddenly gone. And I had to face the world alone, without my special buddy.
Today I am sitting on a log, watching the sun sink lower into the crisp, cool, blue January sky, and letting the grief flow through me. Feeling all the feels. Missing my old self and missing the people who used to journey through life with me. It doesn’t feel real sometimes. Something it makes me angry. Sometimes, I try to blame myself for all of my losses. Sometimes it’s really fucking sad. And sometimes I find acceptance in it all. Grief isn’t linear. It has no end. It’s a healthy normal human experience.
And here’s the part I’m learning to accept: I don’t need to kill that old version of me to honor who I am now. I can grieve him without resurrecting him. I can thank him for getting me this far, for surviving when survival was the only goal, and for handing me off when it was finally time to live differently.
I’m not alone out here on this log, even when it feels that way. I’m accompanied by every version of myself that carried me forward…flawed, loud, loving, reckless, resilient. Some of them had to stay behind. Some of them I still miss. That’s the price of growth.
The tide will come back in. The song will end. The grief will shift shapes again. And I’ll get up, keep walking, and keep choosing a life that’s quieter, truer, and mine.
Not because it’s easy.
But because it’s real.
