They tell you grief is a “journey,” a nice, tidy sequence of stages you check off like milestones on a flat Texas highway. They give you a map and tell you to just keep driving until you reach “acceptance.”
But after the double blow of losing Oliver in November, and then losing my “Boston Mom” Janet just four months later, I realized that map is a total fantasy.
Grief isn’t a Texas highway.
And come to find out … it’s a narrow road up the mountains in St. John—steep, harrowing, with no guardrails and a lot of “sharp left turns.”
The Blind Switchbacks and Missing Rails
On this road, there are no straightaways. You are met with a series of harrowing switchbacks that force you to double back on your own progress. Just when you think you’ve gained some elevation, the road hooks sharply. You find yourself staring at a hairpin turn so tight that the pavement ahead simply disappears.
You can’t see the other side. You can’t see what the next hour looks like, let alone the next month. You’re forced to steer into the unknown, white-knuckling the wheel and praying the ground stays under you. There are no rails here. No safety nets to catch you when the weight of two massive losses makes the car skid. It’s just you and the abyss.
The Sentinels of Stillness
The surreal part is the world’s indifference. While you’re panicking at every turn, heart hammering against your ribs, you encounter the donkeys and goats lining the streets.
They stand there like peaceful, calm sentinels, watching you with unblinking eyes. They aren’t panicking. They’re just chewing slowly in the sun while your world is tilting on its axis. It’s a lonely feeling—to be in a high-stakes fight for survival while the rest of the world stands quietly by the roadside, grazing.
The Voice from the Back Seat
And here is the only thing that makes the climb possible: you aren’t driving this mountain alone.
The people on the same journey are right there with you—piled into the passenger seat and the back, their knuckles just as white as yours. When the road vanishes around a blind curve and you feel yourself drifting toward the edge, they’re there. Every minute, they’re yelling, “Keep left! Keep left!” They are your navigation when your own eyes fail. They are the chorus that keeps the car from going over the side.
The Pit Stop at the Dumpster
Eventually, you get that hollow relief when the GPS says you’ve “arrived.” You pull over, expecting a sanctuary, but there’s nothing but more goats and a dumpster. You look around and see a crowd of other people with the same confused looks on their faces, holding their cell phones high, desperately trying to get better reception.
You realize then that this isn’t the end. It’s just a pit stop. You haven’t “arrived” at healing; you’ve just found the others who are on the same path. You catch your breath, look at the people in your car, and put it back in gear for the final climb.
The Final Arrival
The road keeps winding, but the grade finally begins to soften. You reach the very top of the hill, pulling into the driveway, hoping the parking brake holds, overlooking the world.
You don’t step out of the car alone. The voices from the back seat—the ones who shouted you through the blind turns—are with you. They took the same journey. You didn’t leave them behind at the dumpster; you arrived together.
You walk out onto the deck and look down at the switchbacks below. You see the wreckage of November. You see the razor’s edge where the path narrowed for Janet. You see the spots where you didn’t think you’d make it. You survived the sharp left turns. You survived the lack of rails.
You pour the whiskey, the ice clinks in the mountain air, and you finally exhale. You recline on the deck with the people who kept you on the road, look out over the view of everything you’ve overcome, and fall into a deep, peaceful sleep … until #FJJF wakes you up with his rooster's crow and smoker’s cough.
“Grief is just a high-stakes game of ‘Keep Left’ on a mountain with no guardrails—it’s mostly just white-knuckling the wheel, dodging donkeys, and hoping that the person yelling from the back seat actually knows where the pavement is.”