Blue Tape & Grief Exhaustion

Just when the chronic exhaustion of grief was beginning to lift— it’s back again.

Hit me the moment I opened my eyes this morning.

The sharp pain of realizing my baby was here— was a part of our family, our lives, our mornings— and now she isn’t. She’s gone.

The sharpness knocks the breath out of me and makes my head pound with the enormity of emptiness and the realization that this is completely irreparable.

I can’t ever fix this.

I can’t ever make it go away.

I can’t ever make it stop hurting.

I can’t ever see her, kiss her, hold her, or touch her in this life.

Death is a life of separation.

These are the days when my life starts to feel like a prison sentence.

Quick. Don’t go there. Make a plan. Write a list. Outrun it.

I try to stay busy. Paint the baseboards and trim. Scrub the walls. Clean the house. It’s one of those days where the longer I clean the messier it gets. Every inch of our house is lined with blue tape now.

And now— I’m too exhausted to paint.

Grief exhaustion.

The kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion or lack of sleep. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into thoughts and slowly spreads downwards like an icy chill. It numbs and dulls my body but sharpens my mind. My mind is racing on overdrive while my body is shutting down. It is debilitating. I’m no longer physically functional or mentally useful.

Payson is down for a nap now. Nap time is my only window to paint. But the exhaustion clings to me relentlessly and I can’t fight it. I retreat to my silent, empty bed. The bed where I will never find balled up pink baby socks in the sheets or baby bows loose from a tiny napping head. The bed where I will never again find strands of dark, fuzzy baby hair, or bring her to nurse in my arms every morning and evening.

Shut it off. Sleep now. Reboot the system.

But this kind of grief exhaustion doesn’t sleep.

I don’t feel like this every day like I did in the beginning— but I feel it today. Today the grief sits on me. Today my own heartbeat is painful. Today my thoughts are speeding and blurry. Today my eyes are experiencing a 100% chance of rain.

I accept that I need a nap. That it’s hard to be present with Payson. That nothing on my to do list will get done today. That there will be blue tape on my walls for one more day. In a strange way, the tape is almost comforting. A reminder that the house and it’s occupants are in the middle of a life remodel. Today, things are left unfinished.

So I rest.

I feel.

I let the pain soften and change my plans.

I run to meet the pain instead of trying to outrun it.

This is where healing starts.

When I stop distracting myself from my own need to feel and focus on my grief and loss— my thoughts slow down. My body begins to unthaw as warmth replaces the cold. Peace comes back. I’m functional again when I remember that it’s okay to be sad, I was made to feel this, and that grief is not linear. Grief means I loved, and grief is my work now— just as important as the paintbrushes and blue tape.

It takes time to love and time to grieve. Neither will ever stop. They wax and wane over time— forever intertwined.

Grief is love.