On the Other Side of Sadness: Teaching Our Children (and Ourselves) That It’s Okay to Feel Anything

My six-year-old daughter, Opal, wants nothing more than to go to the Humane Society to visit the dogs that “need the most love.” So we take off from half the school day to do just that, eating almond butter and jelly sandwiches on the way.

The entrance to the Boulder Valley Humane Society smells like wood chips. There are dozens of hamster cages by the front door, lined with Target purchases, like Chapstick and breath mints at Target.

“Can I help you?” The sweet lady behind the counter says through a mouth with more gums than teeth. I tell her that we would like to visit a dog or two that especially needs love.

“Hmmm,” he said, thinking, smiling with his mouth closed. “Yes, Leo can visit him. Grandpa, okay?”

We have an 85 pound lab at home. I assure him that we are getting used to Mkhulu.

We find Leo lying in bed in a very large crate with a bone-shaped sign that says “Sweetie pie.” He is a five-year-old bull with a face as wide as a loaf of bread and fur the shade of sand. We return to the front room where we wait for the operator to take him out.

I notice as we walk through the halls, most of the dogs—but not all—have the same bone-shaped signs hanging from their cages, but with different meanings: “They’re playing!” “Fear.” It occurs to me that those without signs should not appear with their named features. In my mind I’m thinking of throwing a party in the new year where I will put each guest a small symbol around his neck that says one of his outstanding qualities: To please people. The viewer. A perfectionist.

Leo enters through the swinging doors, pulling a worker behind him by a pink rope. This should be a clue as to where we are, but I grab the rope anyway and head out the front doors to where we are. Walking this dog is actually like walking the rear fan in the opposite direction. I desperately try to keep my footing as he drags me down through the mud and we leave Opal behind, screaming. MOTHER!

Giving this dog love seems like a difficult task. So we start heading back towards the building we came from.

As we walk, I notice that the fur is missing from both of Leo’s ears and there are mushroom-shaped lumps on his skin where hair should grow. The same behind his legs. There are pin lines in his short fur where the hair doesn’t grow, much more subtle than the scars that would appear from the mouth or claws of other animals.

Opal says, “Why does he look like that?”

I tell him that it looks like he has been fighting with another dog. It’s harmless enough—animals fight. I’m not saying it looks like he’s been in for a long time dogs. That he was probably rescued from a difficult situation by an abusive owner or an owner who allowed violence. The kind of situation that gives pit bulls a bad name. She’s shocked with the strap—it left both of my hands red and burned from the shaking—but she doesn’t seem to have any fear or anger toward people. This, to me, is a miracle.

When we return, we see a man playing with a pit bull puppy, smiling and laughing as the puppy climbs onto his lap and swims to the side. I can see what Opal wants that experience, so we give Leo a final scratch and ask him to trade him for a puppy.

Restlessness, Swinging, Returning to Presence

We take one in seven pit bull puppies to an outdoor enclosure. The fresh air and puppy energy feels like a relief. He is small as a ball and black except for his belly and white paws. Watching him move and fumble from A to B is a comedy. Opal is full of joy.

Then he asks the inevitable question: “Can we take him home?”

I tell him no. A puppy is a lot of work. They growl and chew everything. But we can visit him next week.

“What if he’s gone?”

Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio—Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see him in the rearview mirror staring a million miles away.

I tell him that if he is gone, that means that a good family took him. These puppies will probably be adopted very quickly.

Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio—Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see him in the rearview mirror staring a million miles away.

At home, Opal rests her body on my lap as we sit on the sofa. Our large lab is snoring at my feet. Opal sniffs and occasionally wipes her nose on her sleeve. I stroke her hair.

He says, “What if no one wants to take Leo?” A small pool of Plump in the corner of his eyes.

I tell Opal that maybe we shouldn’t go back to the Humane Society if it’s going to break her heart. But that really upsets him and I quickly realized that those words contradicted everything we were teaching him.

We—the Grimes family—spent the better part of a year as a foster family. And we always talk about how we don’t need to run away from big feelings, especially when it comes to helping others. But it is such a habit to get angry or panic when faced with unhappiness, and to want to protect others from the pain of being human.

“Honey, the Humane Society will find a good home for Leo. Along with the little puppy and all his brothers and sisters.”

“But what if the man who took them is like that said?”

I know there are no shortcuts to the other side of grief without walking by using it.

“Oh dear,” I said. I’m constantly debating how much truth to share with him about this crazy, uncertain, often scary-yet-beautiful-and-wonderful world. I vacillate between feeling like I’m saying too much, and not knowing what else to say.

So I come back easily attention-in my thoughts, my sadness, my deep breathing, my desire to talk about happy things-because I know there are no shortcuts to get beyond sadness without walking. by using it.

I ask, “Can you breathe with me?”

“Uh-huh.” He is looking up now like us He took a breath and let it out. Slow breathing, slow breathing at first, then calm and deep.

“Well, it’s good to be sad, honey. The truth is there’s a lot of sadness in the world. We keep doing what we can. And you did good today, by giving love like you did.”

At that moment, she stands up, collects herself, and flashes me a small but sincere smile as she goes about her day.

Realization: It’s Okay to Feel My Grief, Too

Two days later, we take a trip to visit our beloved almost year old adopted baby who came back to live with his parents three weeks earlier. This child, we will call Blue Eyes.

I am so happy to find him looking so happy and healthy, so connected to his mother. She has a lovely room with quilts on the walls, lots of toys and books. Their pitbull is uncannily similar to one from a humane society, albeit extremely calm and civilized.

I didn’t realize it, but most of my feelings of loss were wrapped up in the chaos of holidays and travel. Sadness immediately sets in as I stare at her and hear her say OpalOpal.

All good news. However, despite the fact that we will probably see him again, it feels like this visit is a farewell. Little Blue Eyes went home days before Christmas and I didn’t realize it, but most of my feelings of loss were mixed up in the chaos of the holidays and traveling. Sadness immediately sets in as I stare at her and hear her say OpalOpal.

Grief feels like tiredness at first, then hypersensitivity during meals. Then, later, after Opal was asleep, a flood of tears came as if a valve had burst behind my eyes. I can’t stop it, even though my first inclination is to do so. My self-reflection tells me that crying is a natural and healthy reaction, and that I can be free from my sadness. But my body—bones and muscles—want it remove the discomfort. I know all this.

I walk into our room while Jesse is watching TV. He sees my face and says, “Blue Eyes?”

I think about how deep these feelings are for me, as a “strong adult,” and I can only imagine that the same great feelings must be felt by my daughter, who is only on this planet for six years and has very little experience in seeing her feelings on the other side. It is up to us to show him that emotions are fluid, ever changing.

I nodded and lay next to him. I laid my head on his chest the way Opal had done to me a few days before. His heart is in my ear like a distant drum against my stirring wind. I think about how deep these feelings are for me, as a “strong adult,” and I can only imagine that the same great feelings must be felt by my daughter, who is only on this planet for six years and has very little experience in seeing her feelings on the other side. It is up to us to show him that emotions are fluid, ever changing.

“It’s okay to be sad,” Jesse told me. “I feel sad too.”

These are the same words I spoke to Opal when we were on the couch, the same tone of sympathy. I sit up and stretch my arms up and to the sides, the sound of internal movement like a gentle breeze deep in my ear canals. Some life is coming back into my bones.

Those words, “It’s okay to feel down,” opened a window into the small, claustrophobic room of emotions I was huddled in. And it doesn’t cut it that much anymore. This is what happens when I realize not to try to fake, hide, or fight my sadness. I can let it roam freely until, naturally and finally, it just dissolves after an unexpected breath.