The Black Medicine Ball

Imagine somebody hands you a large black medicine ball.

It's heavy.

Uncomfortably heavy.

You don't want it.

You didn't ask for it.

But from this moment on, it belongs to you.

At first it affects everything.

You notice it when you wake up.

You notice it when you go to work.

You notice it when you're trying to have a conversation.

You notice it when you're trying to sleep.

The effort of carrying it consumes most of your energy.

People often assume that grief is about finding a way to get rid of the ball.

In my experience, it rarely works like that.

Years later, the ball is often still there.

The difference is that something else has changed.

You have.

You become stronger.

You find ways to carry it.

You learn when to put it down for a while.

You learn how to live alongside it.

The ball does not become lighter because the person mattered less.

It becomes easier to carry because you have adapted to its weight.