Grief makes us do strange things. It's an undeniable truth that becomes painfully apparent when you lose someone close to you. In the wake of my late wife’s passing, I found myself adopting a daily ritual that, on the surface, didn’t make any logical sense. For almost a year, my mornings began at 4:30 AM with a routine that was as peculiar as it was necessary. I would rise, shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and place a running hairdryer in the sink. It was an odd combination, but somehow, it was the only thing that allowed me to catch a few more hours of sleep, if only temporarily.
This ritual that became a habit, strange as it was, became my lifeline. Grief, I’ve learned over the past ten years, doesn’t adhere to logic or reason. It manifests in ways that are often confusing to those on the outside, and sometimes even to those of us who are experiencing it firsthand. The routine I developed wasn’t about the shower or the hairdryer themselves; it was about creating a semblance of control in a world that had suddenly become chaotic and unpredictable.
In the silence of the early morning, when the world was still asleep, I found solace in the sound of running water and the hum of the hairdryer, which in the moment aggravated me and Dena knew it. She would often tell me that if I would get rich she wouldn't have to get up so early anymore. These noises, which might seem trivial or annoying under normal circumstances, became my white noise. They drowned out the thoughts that raced through my mind, the ones that kept me awake at night and haunted me during the day. It was a temporary escape, a way to quiet the grief that was otherwise overwhelming.
There’s something about grief that compels us to seek out these small acts of comfort. They may not make sense to anyone else, but to us, they are everything. They are the things that get us through the day—or, in my case, through the night. In the absence of the person you’ve lost, these rituals become a stand-in, a way to feel close to them even when they’re no longer there.
For me, the ritual was about more than just sleep. It was a connection to the past, to the life I had shared with my wife. The bathroom, once a space we shared, became a place where I could feel her presence. The routine was a way to hold onto that connection, even as the days passed and the reality of her absence set in. It was a way to keep her close, to create a bridge between the life we had and the life I was now living without her.
In those moments, as I sat in the bathroom listening to the water run and the hairdryer hum, I wasn’t just grieving her loss—I was grieving the loss of our life together, the future we would never have, the dreams that would never be realized. The ritual gave me a space to acknowledge that grief, to sit with it, and to let it wash over me in a way that felt manageable.
Over time, as the intensity of my grief began to ebb, I found that I no longer needed the ritual in the same way. The mornings grew less painful, the need for that specific comfort less urgent. But even as I began to let go of the ritual, I realized that it had served its purpose. It had given me a way to survive those dark mornings, to face each day when it felt impossible to do so.
Grief is a deeply personal experience, and there’s no right or wrong way to navigate it. For some, it might be long walks, writing letters to the deceased, or visiting places that hold memories. For others, it might be rituals like mine, small acts that offer comfort in the midst of chaos. What’s important is that we allow ourselves the space to grieve in our own way, without judgment or expectation.
As I reflect on that time in my life, I’m reminded of the resilience of the human spirit. Even in our darkest moments, we find ways to cope, to survive, and eventually, to heal. Grief may lead us down strange paths, but those paths are part of the journey. They are the bridges that carry us from one day to the next, until we’re ready to walk on our own again.
In the end, the ritual wasn’t about the shower or the hairdryer. It was about giving myself permission to grieve, to find comfort where I could, and to survive in the best way I knew how. And that, I’ve come to realize, is enough.
If you're reading this and you're in that dark place or perhaps you know someone that is, know that you aren't alone. There are people who care and want to help you through this difficult time. Please reach out if you need support.
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