Recently I was pondering the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. We all know that after the solstice, the daylight gradually stretches, as the hours of darkness shrink. But, this year, many of us feel trapped in that shrinking darkness, struggling with pain, loss, and loneliness. And many of us find it hard to share that pain because we're convinced it's not socially acceptable.
Not too long ago, Megan Markle described the pain of her miscarriage in an op-ed piece in the New York Times:
"Losing a child means carrying an almost unbearable grief, experienced by many but talked about by few. In the pain of our loss, my husband and I discovered that in a room of 100 women, 10 to 20 of them will have suffered from miscarriage. Yet despite the staggering commonality of this pain, the conversation remains taboo, riddled with (unwarranted) shame, and perpetuating a cycle of solitary mourning."
I, too, have suffered the pain of miscarriage—twice, in fact. The pain was unimaginable but seeking consolation from others was quite difficult. Feelings of shame and loss consumed me. When I became pregnant with my second child, I felt like I was holding my breath during the entire pregnancy, hoping and praying that all would turn out well.
In 2014, I lost both my mother and my brother, compounding my grief. My sadness made me feel so defeated. But, with time, I realized what I needed was a sense of meaning and purpose that was bigger than my pain. Volunteering, helping friends, finding joy in hobbies, seeking out life-affirming relationships—all of these brought me to a place of genuine hope.
But, keeping hope alive is hard work. It's not easy to let go of our darkest fears. But there is no way for the light to grow if the darkness doesn't shrink. And isn't this the promise of the solstice? I hope this winter solstice, we can all walk through the darkness, and into the light.