Choosing battles and lattes

I have a serious addiction to a local coffee shop. Lately I have been stopping every day. I either bring my laptop and respond to emails over a frothy latte, or grab a to-go order as I run random errands around town. I generally rotate between three locations to avoid becoming a true regular. I feel a greater sense of whimsy when ordering at a different place each day. On a very logical level, I don’t need to have a latte, but I want one. And that small amount of comfort is something I refuse to beat myself up over indulging. 

Thinking about my daily latte made me realize that grief, just like life, is a matter of choosing my battles. There are just certain things into which it is not worth investing tremendous amounts of effort. My coffee habit, while superficial, is one of those. Indulging in fits of crying is another. While I don’t care much for crying in front of people most of time (tends to lead to explaining and I don’t feel like doing that), I spend plenty of time getting the tears out of my system. The less I fight the sad moments, the more they tend to pass over me and allow newer feelings to emerge. Coffee and crying make me feel better—for very different reasons.

Anger is a newer emotion that I am allowing to settle into my life at the moment. It’s not something I generally feed, but I acknowledge its presence in my grieving. While sadness and anger are not emotions I particularly enjoy, I don’t fight with them because I know they serve a purpose. Sadness and crying are my release from the devastation and loss I feel. Crying allows me to mourn Chris. Anger gives me resiliency. It makes me want to fight back. 

Giving myself some grace is something that I have struggled with my entire life. Chris was my grace in a lot of ways—he was more forgiving and loving of my flaws that I could ever offer myself. Losing him silenced the voice that challenged what really mattered. He had a way of putting everything into perspective.

In keeping him close to my heart, I am trying to reclaim that voice for myself. To honor what I have learned from him by choosing my battles now. Not worrying about my sadness or anger allows me to invest more energy in the places I need it—on finding ways to heal and keeping myself away from negative emotions that prevent that healing process. 

I know it’s very normal to experience a range of emotions when dealing with loss, most of which are inevitably part of process. However, for me personally, there are certain emotions that I feel hinder my ability to be the person I think Chris wants me to be. I invest my energy in creating small moments of joy for myself, like getting a delicious latte, because I do not want to be bitter and mean. I don’t want to face a joyless life (even if my greatest joy is no longer living). I don’t want to begrudge other peoples’ happiness either… which is why seeking my own contentment is important.

Wanting to be happy can feel like a betrayal—even though I know Chris wants me to make the most of life. However, being miserable feels like an even greater betrayal to Chris’ memory, so I am choosing to aim for thriving as best I can. I want the battles I choose to be worth the effort, battles I feel Chris would applaud (like qualifying for Boston). 

Despite my efforts, I am very far from perfect. There is no perfect way to grieve anyway. And even though I try not to beat myself up, it happens from time to time. Old habits die hard. (If only I could have laid those to rest instead). The thought that keeps driving me forward is meeting Chris in heaven one day, and having him be proud of what I was able to do when I wanted to give up the most.