Loss of Happiness

Since my mom passed in January, I have been struggling to find even a flicker of the happiness I once knew. It feels as though a giant weight has settled over me, one that never lifts or lightens. Things that used to bring me joy, like opening a new book, getting lost in a video game, or even the simple pleasure of trying a new coffee, no longer hold any appeal. I find myself wondering if the death of my mom was also the death of my happiness because of how close we were and how much of our lives we shared.

I try to stay positive for my wife. She is an incredible woman who loves me more than I feel I deserve, and her encouragement is a constant in my life. Yet, even with her by my side, I cannot seem to get my head straight. I feel a deep sense of frustration and anger. I am upset with God for not healing her here, I am upset with the doctors for not doing more, and I am even upset with myself for being upset. I want to be the follower of Christ she raised me to be, and I want to study and grow as a disciple, but my mind wanders after just a few pages. I cannot concentrate because the loss is always there, lurking in the background.

Work is the only place I find a temporary reprieve. When there is a line of customers in front of me, I am forced to focus on their needs, and for a few moments, the weight disappears. But the second the line ends and the silence returns, the darkness rushes back in. Even during a beautiful two week trip to Brazil with my wife, that gnawing heaviness followed me. I knew the moment I stepped back home, the darkness would try to take over, and I have been fighting it ever since.

I am tired of fighting. I don’t want to just remember what it felt like to be happy; I want to be the happiness again. I want to laugh and feel human, to truly be able to say it is well with my soul. While I believe that one day this pain will fade into a dull ache I can live with, right now I am just pushing forward against everything inside of me that wants to give up. I am looking for a way to move forward without her, holding onto my faith and the hope that the darkness will eventually be banished for good.

I have been thinking about how to carry this weight differently, since fighting against it hasn't stopped the exhaustion. I realized that at work, I find relief because I am tethered to the present moment by the people in front of me. Maybe the way forward isn't about waiting for the darkness to vanish all at once, but about finding small tethers in my daily life that keep me from drifting too far into the past.

I need to stop measuring my progress by how I used to be and start accepting where I am right now. If I can’t read a whole chapter of a book or a long passage of scripture, I will commit to just one paragraph or one verse. I don’t have to be a perfect scholar to honor my mom’s legacy; I just have to show up as I am. If I can only give two minutes of focus before my mind wanders, I will be grateful for those two minutes and try again later. Honesty in my brokenness is its own kind of discipleship.

There is also something to be said for the "doing" when the "feeling" isn't there yet. My mom and I did so much together for so long, and perhaps I can find a way to turn that connection into an action. It might be as simple as brewing a cup of coffee she loved or taking a walk outside to clear the physical heaviness in my chest. I don't have to force myself to feel happy while doing these things. I just have to do them to remind myself that I am still here and that her influence is still moving through me.

I also have to learn to let my wife hold the lantern when my own light feels like it has gone out. I’ve been trying so hard to be the positive one for her, but moving forward might actually mean being vulnerable enough to let her lead the way for a while. I am not giving up by admitting I am tired; I am acknowledging how much I loved my mom. Eventually, I know this darkness will transform into that dull ache I can live with, but for today, my only job is to take the next step, no matter how small it feels.