In this life, you are a loser. I’m not putting you down, but rather highlighting a simple truth. We are all losers, not in our capabilities or value as humans, but by virtue of the fact that life brings loss.
In the material world, we grow, acquire things, form relationships, and eventually must let things go. People die, relationships end or turn sour, treasures dwindle or rust, and life brings disappointments and losses. It’s not easy to let go. It is human nature to form attachments, and this is the substrate of love, care, and emotional bonding. It is also a foundation for trauma and obsessive clinging to what is no longer ours to have.
When we lose something valuable, it’s natural to grieve and mourn. The hurt and vulnerability clamor for expression and solace. We want to cry out, be comforted and reassured. While waiting for the healing of time, we feel empty, bereft, and perhaps damaged.
Allowing ourselves to feel and admit the pain of loss is necessary to accept and process letting go. There are many avenues for doing this, and it typically occurs in stages. Grief and mourning can be individual or communal, some of it at a profound internal level and other aspects shared with friends, family, or trusted ones. Loss and vulnerability can open us up to parts of ourselves previously unrecognized. We can also receive the love and support from others, opening doors to new relationships, trust, and deeper intimacy.
Sometimes, support and condolences arrive from outside our inner circle. Notes or flowers may seem obligatory or cliché, but they offer a timely soothing. Some traditions provide rituals for mourning. In the Jewish faith, people sit shiva for a relative recently passed—a week-long period where bereaved family members are visited and consoled.
Some traditions also have professional mourners or wailers: people hired to join the bereaved and comfort them with outward expressions of communal grief and mourning.
Note that mourning applies to loss in a realm broader than people and animals and our relationships with them. We can mourn the giving up of habits, jobs or living situations, and objects or experiences rescinded or no longer needed.
The “good old days” of partying, debauchery, or “carefree” youth may grow fonder in retrospect, as we overwrite history with emotional adornment. As we age, our bodies degrade; thus, we may reminisce and miss eras of more athleticism, youthful looks, energy, or robust health.
We can also mourn for the pleasure and habits (even bad ones) we once indulged or enjoyed. Previous behaviors may have been unsavory, but we remember the hedonism and gratification we derived even after we’ve matured and relinquished old behaviors.
There is such a thing as good mourning. Whether reminiscing, pining wistfully or remorsefully, missing, or simply bidding good riddance—mourning and letting go brings closure to bygones, those we love and those we regret.
When I mourn, I remember the good and the not-so-good. In retrospect, it’s natural to selectively filter and emphasize or exaggerate in memory either the positives or negatives. We tend to rewrite history in favor of our emotional leanings, guilt and regrets, beliefs, and justifications. I remember fondly and with great emotion the loved ones I’ve lost. I treasure their personalities, their affection and closeness to me, and the times we shared. But, I also remember vividly their quirks and what nuisances they could be. In a real sense, this enables me to continue my relationships with dear ones who have passed.
I have mourned for old habits and behaviors I’ve left behind—especially the selfish, self-indulgent, and destructive ones. Not that I am quite “evolved,” but, thankfully. I’ve shed many unhelpful behaviors and attitudes.
One set of behaviors and attitudes I’ve mourned extensively is my tendency to feel entitled. This mindset encompasses indignation when things don’t go my way, a sense that I should be appreciated and recognized, and a tendency to feel sorry for myself and to brood about my perception of others’ insensitivity and lack of compassion.
In her recent book, Dusk Night Dawn, author Ann Lamott reveals a stark description of one of her tragicomic flaws—one that resonates with me:
“I continue to wait patiently for several people to come to me begging for my forgiveness before they die—a change that is about as likely to happen for me as any breakthrough for the turkey in the old New Yorker cartoon marching with a placard that says ‘Repent!’”
Like the prideful and delusional turkey, I imagine that I am somehow overdue sincere deference and apologies for actual or perceived slights and mistreatment by others. Realistically, I’m relieved to bury that selfish part of me, although at times I mourn the self-pity and self-righteousness.
Though most mourning is typically associated with grief and sorrow, saying goodbye to old habits, modes of functioning and bittersweet memories can be cleansing. This good mourning prepares us to move on and to continue with other emotional attachments without fearing the devastation of loss.
If we are to love and allow ourselves to bond and form intimate attachments, we must be prepared for the inevitability of loss. Though not always specifically predictable, we know that life incurs loss; in this sense, we must learn to be accepting and patient losers. Mourning effectively is comforting, respectful, and strengthening. It is an act of humility that exposes vulnerability, but is also quite liberating. As mourning brings closure, sorrow tends to diminish, and the future brightens.
We can mourn the loss of dear ones. We can mourn for bygone eras and the memory of idyllic times. We can mourn for the losses of others and join them in compassion, prayer, rituals, or simply company.
Ironically, we attach and surrender, grab and give, take hold and relinquish. Survival teaches us to become fierce in getting. Yet, the nature of life is that we also lose and cede. How well we adapt to these interrelated processes contributes mightily to our peace and functioning.
In my book, When God Takes Away: Living With Loss and Surrender, I delve deeply into these topics, sharing my personal anguish and experience with loss as well as psychological insights and strategies for coping with loss and navigating the vicissitudes of attachment and surrender. The book covers many aspects of loss including relationships, possessions, opportunities, body functions, innocence, and life.
The biological imperative of attachment is explored in detail, as it underpins healthy emotional bonding and acceptance of loss.
Here is a poem from that book:
I love the God who gives me things and reasons,
Who gives me things without reasons,
Who gives me songs and seasons.
I hate the nature forcing me to give up things I want—still want—
When I’m not ready.
Willing or steady in resolve to be okay,
Complete in confiscation.
Take away, take me away,
Don’t punish me with absence.
Lift my burdens, hear me say
That emptiness is nascent.
Consecrate this forfeiture instead of wresting trauma,
Give up the entitlements without the trenchant drama.
Oh, God, I’m awed with fortune, how you populate my life
With work and foods, conflicting moods,
With children and a wife.
Yet in the end, around the bend, it all becomes rescinded.
I run the race and find my place, the trek has left me winded.
Remaining breaths appreciate the time and matter left to stay,
For soon enough, it is enough,
And then God takes away.
We all need to tolerate and accept loss, to grieve and mourn with passion, and to integrate healing with these difficult and often painful experiences.
Don’t be afraid to mourn, and don’t be ashamed. Find out what thoroughly expresses your feelings, and give those expressions liberal reign.
Whether you mourn what you’d like to have back or ceremonially say goodbye to what you no longer desire or need, remember the loss with affection and balance: the wonderful parts and the trying ones.
Invite others to share in your mourning. They have sorrows, regrets, and laments, too. Seek company, and strive to be heard and felt. Listen to the anguish and heart rhythms of others. Cling to the miracle of connection, rather than to particular subjects or objects. Treasure and nurture your ability to attach. Practice letting go.
Mother Teresa is reputed to have said, “Take what God gives, and give what he takes—with a big smile!”
Good mourning.
— Mark Steinberg, PhD
