Soul Sadness: Grieving Our Unlived Lives
The piercings she hadn’t approved, the lies, stale smell of
cigarettes, and earphones that kept him in his own removed world—every
interaction with Micky left her feeling powerless, angry, and afraid. The more
she tried to take control with her criticism with “groundings” and other ways
of setting limits, the more withdrawn and defiant Micky became. When she came
in for a counseling session, she wanted to talk about why the entire situation
was really her fault.
An attorney with a large firm, Marge felt she’d let her
career get in the way of attentive parenting. She’d divorced Micky’s father
when the boy was entering kindergarten and her new partner, Jan, had moved in
several years later. More often than not, it was Jan, not Marge, who went to
PTA meetings and soccer games. It was Jan who was there when Micky got home
from school. Recently, the stress had peaked when a new account increased
Marge’s hours at work.
“I wish I’d been there for him more,” she said. “I love him,
I’ve tried, but now it is impossible to reach him. I’m so afraid he is going to
create a train wreck out of his life.” I heard the despair in her voice. When
she fell silent, I invited her to sit quietly for a few moments. “You might
notice whatever feelings you’re aware of, and when you’re ready, name them out
loud.” When she spoke again, Marge’s tone was flat. “Anger—at him, at me, who
knows. Fear—he’s ruining his life. Guilt, shame—so much shame, for screwing up
as a mother.”
I asked her softly if it would be okay to take some time to
investigate the shame. She nodded. “You might start by agreeing to let it be
there, sensing where you feel it most in your body.” Again she nodded, and a
few moments later, put one hand on her heart and another on her belly. “Good,”
I said. “Keep letting yourself feel the shame, and sense if there is something
it wants to say. What is it believing about you, about your life?”
It was a while before Marge spoke. “The shame says that I
let everyone down. I’m so caught up in myself, what’s important to me. It’s not
just Micky, it’s Jan, and Rick (her ex-husband), and my mom, and...I’m selfish
and too ambitious. I disappoint everyone I care about.”
“How long have you felt this way, that you’ve let everyone
down?” I asked. She said, “As long as I can remember. Even as a little girl.
I’ve always felt I was failing people, that I didn’t deserve love. Now I run
around trying to achieve things, trying to be worthy, and I end up failing
those I love the most!”
“Take a moment, Marge, and let the feeling of failing
people, of being undeserving of love, be as big as it really is.” After a few
moments, she said, “It’s like a sore tugging feeling in my heart.”
“Now,” I said, “sense what it’s like to know that even as a
little girl—for as long as you can remember—you’ve lived with this pain of not
deserving love, lived with this sore tugging in your heart. Sense what that has
done to your life.” Marge grew very still and then began silently weeping.
Marge was experiencing what I call “soul sadness,” the
sadness that arises when we’re able to sense our temporary, precious existence,
and directly face the suffering that’s come from losing life. We recognize how
our self-aversion has prevented us from being close to others, from expressing
and letting love in. We see, sometimes with striking clarity, that we’ve closed
ourselves off from our own creativity and spontaneity, from being fully alive.
We remember missed moments when it might have been otherwise, and we begin to
grieve our unlived life.
This grief can be so painful that we tend, unconsciously, to
move away from it. Even if we start to touch our sadness, we often bury it by
reentering the shame—judging our suffering, assuming that we somehow deserve
it, telling ourselves that others have “real suffering” and we shouldn’t be
filled with self-pity. Our soul sadness is fully revealed only when we directly
and mindfully contact our pain. It is revealed when we stay on the spot and
fully recognize that this human being is having a hard time. In such moments,
we discover a natural upwelling of compassion—the tenderness of our own
forgiving heart.
When Marge’s crying subsided, I suggested she ask the place
of sorrow what it longed for most. She knew right away: “To trust that I’m
worthy of love in my life.” I invited her to once again place one hand on her
heart and another on her belly, letting the gentle pressure of her touch
communicate care. “Now sense whatever message most resonates for you, and send
it inwardly. Allow the energy of the message to bathe and comfort all the
places in your being that need to hear it.”
After a couple of minutes of this, Marge took a few full
breaths. Her expression was serene, undefended. “This feels right,” she said
quietly, “being kind to my own hurting heart.” Marge had looked beyond her
fault to her need. She was healing herself with compassion.
Before she left, I suggested she pause whenever she became
aware of guilt or shame, and take a moment to reconnect with self-compassion.
If she was in a private place, she could gently touch her heart and belly, and
let that contact deepen her communication with her inner life. I also
encouraged her to include the metta (lovingkindness) practice for herself and
her son in her daily meditation: “You’ll find that self-compassion will open
you to feeling more loving.”
Six weeks later, Marge and I met again. She told me that at
the end of her daily meditation, she’d started doing metta for herself,
reminding herself of her honesty, sincerity, and longing to love well. Then
she’d offer herself wishes, most often reciting, “May I accept myself just as I
am. May I be filled with loving-kindness, held in lovingkindness.” After a few
minutes, she’d then bring her son to mind: “I would see how his eyes light up
when he gets animated, and how happy he looks when he laughs. Then I’d say,
‘May you feel happy. May you feel relaxed and at ease. May you feel my love
now.’ With each phrase I’d imagine him happy, relaxed, feeling held in my
love.”
Their interactions started to change. She went out early on
Saturday mornings to pick up his favorite “everything” bagels before he woke
up. He brought out the trash unasked. They watched several episodes of The Wire
together on TV. Then, Marge told me, “A few nights ago, he came into my home
office, made himself comfortable on the couch, and said nonchalantly, ‘What’s
up, Mom? Just thought I’d check in.’”
“It wasn’t exactly an extended chat,” she said with a smile.
“He suddenly sprang up and told me he had to meet some friends at the mall. But
we’re more at ease, a door has reopened.” Marge was thoughtful for a few
moments, then said, “I understand what happened. By letting go of the
blame—most of which I was aiming at myself—I created room for both of us in my
heart.”
As Marge was discovering, self-compassion is entirely
interdependent with acting responsibly and caringly toward others. Forgiving
ourselves clears the way for a loving presence that can appreciate the goodness
of others, and respond to their hurts and needs. And, in turn, our way of
relating to others affects how we regard ourselves and supports our ongoing
self-forgiveness.
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Please enjoy this short video: Remembering Self-Compassion
