The Sweatshirt

One Sunday morning, I got up and went to work for a 15 hours shift, just as any other normal Sunday. 12 hours into my shift, I learned my life was forever changed. My loved one was passing, and I had very little time left to say goodbye.

The thoughts, the lights, the smells, the people giving hugs, the hands being held. There was so much to take in, so much that could have stuck with me as a memory, so much that could remain as a trigger, and so much that could have been missed. The weird questions, the shock, the tears, the sympathetic looks.

Yet, despite all the things that could have impacted me the most, stuck with me, and shaped my grief journey, the thing that stands out strongly for me was my sweatshirt. It was a teal hoodie, nothing special or fancy as I was dressed for a 15 hour work day in direct youth care. I went home alone in that sweatshirt, changed into pajamas, and tossed the sweatshirt to the side.

I just remember thinking, "I can't just wash it and treat it like any other shirt. This sweatshirt is tied to the worst day of my life. It's last day I saw him alive." Of all the things I could have focused on, I was stuck on a sweatshirt. Moving it to the closet felt wrong, it needed to be washed. Washing it felt wrong, it felt too final, too real. I folded it up and laid it on a shelf, just out of view. Out of sight, out of mind, just as I tried to do with my grief in the beginning.

A month or two later, I happened upon a teal string dangling off the shelf, waiting to be noticed. Just like my grief. I had a few weeks at this point to process, find a new routine, and adjust to my new "normal". I thought I would have handled this moment better. I passed by the sweatshirt, feeling flooded with anger, resentment, and deep, heavy sadness. Tears ran down my face, seemingly with no stop. I wanted to escape. To run. To be anywhere but in the life I had. To do anything to wake up from this nightmare my life had become. For that terrible Sunday in my teal sweatshirt to all be a horrible dream.

I felt the feelings, tucked that dangling string up in the sweatshirt, and left it for another time. "It's just not time yet," I remember thinking, when trying to decide what to do with my soft, taunting sweatshirt.

Eventually, a few months after seeing that sweatshirt in passing, I decided it was time to let it go. I washed it, dried it, and folded it with care and packed it away in a box to be donated. It hurt, knowing I was letting go of something that held a memory that was tied to my loved one. The heavy, sinking feeling in my chest weighed on my for a moment. I opened my phone, scrolling through pictures of big smiles and happy memories with him. The pain didn't go away instantly, but was balanced with these happy faces staring back at me in the old family pictures.

Taking that sweatshirt to the donation drop off brought me a sense of closure I didn't know I was missing or needing. Letting go of that horrible day didn't make me let go of him like I had been fearing. It allowed me to let go of a little bit of the pain that was haunting my memories and throwing me off my routine each time I saw it.

Maybe for you, it's not a sweatshirt. Maybe it's the coffee cup you used that morning. Maybe it's a lunchbox that came home without your loved one at the end of that day. Maybe it's their tooth brush that's been left untouched.

Whatever thing you're holding onto, give yourself grace. Hold space for yourself and your feelings. You'll know when it feels right, and you just might be surprised what feelings get a bit easier when you make that step. Wherever you are in your grief journey, remember your loved one and your grief are not forgotten.