Stepping Onto the Escalator of Grief
My partner’s mother died early Monday morning.
No tears required. She was a good woman. She survived a complicated childhood, found herself a solid man, and raised a good family. There’s nothing unfinished or tragic about the arc of her life. Still, she’s gone. And between Bob and me, she was the last of our four parents. The final one.
I remember this feeling well. When my mother died, I was swallowed by a kind of grief that felt rude in its demands. I wasn’t just sad. I was angry. Angry that the world didn’t slow down. Angry that traffic lights still changed, emails still arrived, and people still laughed at coffee shops while something enormous had just cracked open inside me.
I was stuck in a moment that required my full attention. A moment I needed to sit inside, examine, survive. But life didn’t wait. It kept moving without me. Without her. And I hated that. I wanted time to pause long enough for me to breathe, to remember, to stand still with what I had lost.
I remember wanting to shout at strangers. Not out of cruelty, but desperation. Hey. Someone important just died. Can we all stop for a second? Can we take one collective breath and acknowledge that something sacred just slipped out of the room?
Of course, that’s not how it works.
Life doesn’t pause. It doesn’t hold space. It keeps moving forward, dragging you with it whether you’re ready or not.
Grief feels like stepping onto an escalator that’s moving just a bit too fast. Your footing is off. Your balance is shaky. For a moment you’re sure you’re going to fall. But eventually, you don’t. You adjust. You stand. And before you realize it, the escalator has carried you farther and farther away from the moment you were trying so desperately to stay inside.
Now it’s Bob’s turn.
I’m trying to stay aware of what he needs as he holds space for his mother, while quietly coming to terms with a realization that lands heavy whether you name it or not: He is now nobody’s little boy. There’s no parent left who remembers him before he was who he is now.
That kind of absence doesn’t scream. It just settles in.
So we’re moving carefully this week. Letting life continue, because it will anyway. Finding our footing. Standing upright on a moving staircase that doesn’t care how tender the moment is. And doing our best to stay present with what was, even as the world insists on pulling us forward.
Some losses don’t ask for tears. They ask for attention. For patience. For a little more gentleness than usual. And maybe for the quiet understanding that even when the world doesn’t pause, it’s okay if you need to slow down.
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