On Grief & Resistance

 Sascha Demerjian

“What you resist persists.”

Perhaps you know of this observation from Carl Jung (though, undoubtedly, others without access to platforms, also have observed this). These days whenever I see entreaties to resist I think of this. And I see many entreaties to resist.

I get it. I love my resist t shirt gifted by a dear friend and I know the importance of standing up for folks and to injustice. Yet I keep thinking of this observation and I can’t quite set it down.

What if our resistance actually is fueling the very thing we are fighting?

Times of collapse call for openness to new ways of being. Times like this call for new tools, new approaches. If we want a truly new outcome, rather than being thrust back into a “less bad than this” outcome, being open, vulnerable, and leaning into discomfort is key. Grief work can teach us a lot here.

In my work at The Grief House, I see folks spending a lot of energy resisting grief. It can feel like the only way to go – completely understandably. Resisting can feel as close to keeping us safe as we can get – a better than the alternative, or so we think, stance. Some come to The Grief House having perfected their resistance to grief and are looking for support as to why it remains, and some come whose resistance has been thoroughly diminished by the constant and overwhelming nature of grief.

Grief is a leveler.

Many who find themselves leveled have stated they are in uncharted territory.

They have no tools for this new place.

They are scared.

They feel alone.

Me and my beloved dog Panda in 2017

I’ll tell a story about my own grief journey – one I tell often in gatherings. For years, I resisted my grief (not knowing that was what I was doing exactly). I spent so much energy holding it at bay, not letting it overcome me. I didn’t know what lay at the other side of being overcome and I couldn’t risk finding out. Resisting felt like the only way. I was using all my energy to hold it back, hoping that it would subside on its own and that I could grow everything I needed on just this side of grief.

I did this for years.

One night I had a dream about a flooding room. In this dream I am in a small room and water is seeping in along the edges. It is creeping closer to me as I stand in the center. I know in this dream that I must stay dry. I need to stay out of the water to be ok. I spend all of my energy avoiding the water, in a defensive position. This is how I live in my dream – avoiding. To stay “safe”.

In my waking life, my “flooding room” became untenable with secondary and tertiary losses. The “room” collapsed. I was underwater.  Plunged into grief.

There was no longer anything to cling to, and, after the initial panic, I let go. Being soft and letting it all impact me, feeling it all, was the only way. For the first time I stopped resisting. In this moment in my life many things happened. My forecasting and planning and control of outcomes felt impossibly sweet and a sign of my desperate resistance to what is. Yet what is demanded addressing.

My resistance in that flooding room reinforced the story that I have control over these elusive and impossible to guarantee objectives such as peace, safety and happiness. I just needed to resist more. And the effort of resisting kept me from feeling into the depths of my sadness, my fear and my worry.

The flooding room dream was a beacon.

Once I was plunged into the deep waters from my flooding room, and, after the shock of that wore off, I found a much larger range of emotional capacity and experience than I had ever imagined. In that room I was holding grief at bay – grief that I cannot always keep folks safe, that I cannot make folks happy, that I cannot guarantee peace. But in that room I was also holding joy at bay – joy that I too can be held in compassion, that little moments exist whether I notice them or not that are filled with joyful, peaceful, loving expression.

Being present with what is can feel like a lot. And what if we are up for it? What if we have been taught and told that we can’t do this, but we can? And what if we can do it together? There is a lot of interest from our systemic power structure that would like us to feel like we cannot hold this – and would benefit if we believed we need authority, and impossible promises of safety that keep our lives small and regimented.

As my ability to witness and be present with the grief and joy around me grew, my capacity to see and hold both the grief and joy around me grew and continues to grow.

Me and my sweet dog Bruno this morning

I hear similar sentiments from other grievers all the time. We didn’t want this grief. But not grieving it only keeps us from fully being able to see it. It diminishes our humanness and empathy. Towards ourselves and others.

At the time of my flooding room dream I was also practicing Aikido – the way of harmony. At my studio we would receive an attacker with non-violence, non-resistance, and use the attacker’s own energy to de-escalate. So, what does this look like? The attacker punches and you move their arm to the side, spin them around and pin them, or support their own attacking energy in throwing them forward to the ground with their own punch. It is absolutely beautiful to witness and an inspiring practice, which, not unlike yoga, has deep and powerful philosophical underpinnings to work with supporting a unified body, mind and spirit. Aikido presents a way forward that is strong, graceful, and works with the attacker’s energy rather than against it. This protects both the attacker and the attacked, and uses both the energy from attacker and attacked towards the peaceful resolution.

So, let’s loop back to what we resist persists. To truly learn the lessons this collapsing empire is teaching us – not just in our minds, but in our hearts, our bodies, our souls – embracing what is is vital. Let’s make sure we are not expending energy trying to stay in our “safe” flooding rooms and losing sight of the scary, big, connected everything beyond it.

This period is leveling us. And while this is disorienting and painful, it also reminds us of our humanness, our empathy and our ability to connect. I believe in us. I hope you do too.