How spiritual principles helped guide me in grief

I first heard about the “spiritual principles” when my son, Tristan, was active in Narcotics Anonymous (NA), learning to live in a way that granted him some peace in his daily life. We were both inspired by people who put these principles into practice and how—day after day, year after year, decade after decade—they became the foundation for lives very much worth celebrating.

Those spiritual principles are acceptance, hope, faith, courage, honesty, patience, humility, willingness, love, integrity, self-discipline, and service.

You don’t need to be religious to get behind the idea of spiritual principles. You don’t even need to consider yourself spiritual. Simply being part of humanity is a good enough reason to try them on for size.

When I saw Tristan practicing these values in his life, I became curious. I read NA’s Basic Text and went to my own meetings where I learned that living by spiritual principles was not just for people who struggled with addiction. They are meant to provide guidance for humans. I saw how these principles could help me overcome my codependent tendencies and improve my life. They could help me be more joyful, more fulfilled, more expressive. More me. I was leaning into them, learning from them, and seeing progress in my life. And then.

Tristan died.

And I become unmoored. I no longer held an anchoring set of principles by which to live. At least not consciously. I felt adrift, but as the turbulent waters of grief began to calm, and I looked at the life I had rebuilt, I realized that those spiritual principles had never left me. More accurately, I never gave up on them. Even when I didn’t see them or feel them, they had always guided my healing through grief, as they guided my healing earlier, and continue to guide me.

Having the guidance of these spiritual principles has eased my grief experience, and continues to provide me with the strength and stamina I need to build my life anew: a life that is joyful, fulfilled, and expressive. A life worth celebrating. A life still filled with grief, but that makes room for many other wonderous things.

Acceptance

Denial is a classic part of grief, and particularly traumatic grief. Something so terrible just can’t be true. Over time, I have learned to accept Tristan’s death, that he will not grow old and move through life’s milestones, that he will not be here as his sisters and I move through ours. I’ve learned to accept where I am in my grief journey, without judgement. I accept there are times I’m overwhelmed with heartache, and times when I laugh and feel joy. I accept that I did my best. I accept that it wasn’t enough.

Hope

When I could no longer hope for Tristan, I made a conscious decision to hope for myself. Before Tristan’s death, I’d had a glimpse of what my life could feel like, if I leaned into living with purpose. I had come to understand that I could be okay, no matter what happened around me. Tristan’s death put that to the test, and I hoped it was true: That I could, in fact, be okay in a world without my son. That I could live a fulfilling, joyful life with purpose. I didn’t know how that might happen, but I hoped.

Faith

For me, faith came from seeing others who journeyed with grief before me, and still led a life I admired. I had faith that, over time, I could do the same. Faith was the home in which my hope could live, an answer to the question, how?. I hoped that I’d be ok. I had faith that if followed the examples of others who experienced similar losses and found their way forward, then I would too.

Courage

Facing grief head on is not for the faint of heart. It’s easier to run away from pain than run into it. Conversely, it can be easier to punish ourselves with pain than take much-needed breaks away. For me, entering into, and walking away from, my grief in a rhythm that allowed me to address grief in the moment, and have the energy to continue to address it over time, was one of the most courageous things I’ve ever done.

Honesty

Grief is not simple, particularly after a traumatic loss. My son had lived in and out of addiction for years, and our lives had been a whirlwind of love and hurt and laughter and yelling and trauma and hope and acceptance and denial. I needed to be honest with myself about how I showed up in his life, both the good and the bad. The good was easier to deal with, but critically important for me to acknowledge. The guilt and shame were not easy, but I needed to examine and acknowledge them in order to release them.

Patience

Time doesn’t take away our grief, but it does soften it. Over time, I’ve created more room in my life for joyful things to live alongside of my grief. But it’s taken a lot of time. Four and a half years, so far. And still more time is needed for me to find a comfortable way of being that doesn’t position my grief on centre stage. Sometimes I get tired of grieving and talking about grief. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the way I was before, even if Tristan is still gone. But I can’t. With patience and perseverance, I continue to find a new way of being. I continue to be patient with myself.

Humility

I don’t think I’ve “done grief well”. At least not as well as the perfectionist inside of me had hoped. Grief is messy and painful and it took over my mind and body. For periods of time, I was at its mercy. I had thoughts I didn’t want to think, feelings I didn’t want to feel, and did things I didn’t want to do. I had to learn to surrender to my grief moments. They were bigger than I was. I’ve learned that there is no right way to “do grief”. We just do the best we can and buckle up for the ride.

Willingness

I needed to be actively willing to do the work of grief; to dive into painful feelings and memories, to breathe into the ever expanding moments of joy, to find new ways to stay connected with Tristan, now gone. In the months following the death of my son, I couldn’t even imagine that I’d ever want to have a large, joy-filled, expressive life again. It took work to make that happen. I had to be willing to do the work.  

Love

Everything I do, I do for love. Healing through grief is perhaps my greatest act of self-love. When self-love doesn’t motivate me, I act out of love for my daughters, other family and friends, and my dog. They deserve to have me engaged in their lives and well in mine. When that doesn’t motivate me, I act out of love for Tristan. He wouldn’t want me to use his death as an excuse to not live my life fully. He’d feel terrible, and I won’t do that to him.

Integrity

To me, integrity means to consistently act from a place of honesty and moral principles. Even when it’s hard. Whether I’m writing about the trauma of Tristan’s addiction, the wonderous joy he brought to my life, or my own struggle through grief, I try to embrace that fully: writing is my healing space even though it’s not easy. And it’s taken integrity for me to reestablish a healthy relationship with my body, and give it the exercise and food that nourishes it. I know the me I want to be: integrity is what inches me ever closer to becoming her.  

Self-discipline

This is one of the toughest ones for me. I’m an idea person; a planner. Conceptually, I can solve anybody’s problems, including my own. But actually doing the work, consistently for long enough to make a difference? Not my strong suit. I’d rather jump to the next idea or problem to solve. Grief has helped me develop self-discipline. Now, more than ever, I know how precious life is and don’t want to live an unfulfilling life. I rely heavily on my patience, humility, integrity, and self-love in order to drum up enough self-discipline to actually accomplish the things I need to.

Service

In early grief, it was all I could do to look after myself, occasionally. And then some of the time. And then most of the time. Now, four and a half years later, I find myself seeking opportunities to help others who struggle with similar losses. I’m active on online groups, almost always to offer understanding and encouragement. I share my experiences and writing in the hope they will help others. And I’m facilitating a support group for people who’ve lost loved ones to drug harms. Though I still grieve, I’m now in a position to lend my strength to others who grieve more acutely. And that, in turn, has gifted me with meaning and purpose. I love that part of my life!

There is no question that grief is tough. And it’s different for everyone. But there are tools that can help us have the life we always wanted for ourselves, even if our person is no longer with us in the same way. For me, these spiritual principles, together with gratitude, were the life-savers I needed to keep from drowning in my grief. And I am eternally grateful to Tristan for bringing them into my life.