The Rhythm of Grief - Summer Days and Letting Go

It’s been several weeks since I returned my daughter to her mother, with whom she lives during the school year. We spent what I consider the most beautiful 85 days of summer together. We did what we wanted, when we wanted—always together.

But when it ended, the silence and emptiness left behind tore through me. Still does.

I’ve never felt grief like this before—not even when we first began our geographically separated parenting arrangement years ago. The strange thing is, the more healed I become, the more I love, the deeper our bond grows… the more it hurts to let her go. Each time, it cuts deeper. It cuts true.

It feels unnatural—I sense it in every fiber of my body. She’s fine, happy, nurtured, safe with her mother. That gives me peace of mind, but I remain here with the silence, the emptiness, the melancholy. It’s not pain, not joy, not stress, not peace. It’s just hurt. Lingering. Grief. It feels like somebody died. And in a way, someone did.

Because even though we FaceTime almost every day—sometimes multiple times a day—I’m not living life with her. She has her own world there, growing and evolving, and I’m missing it. Each summer, during those 80+ days, I get to meet her again. But the version of her I knew before is gone. She comes alive to me again just in time to leave. And then that version dies, too.

This is the rhythm her mother and I created. It’s the best we could design. But it means I grieve every time. And apparently, each time cuts harder. I hope not. But maybe this is what it means to love profoundly—strength through suffering.

This is the closest I’ve ever felt to death—not pain, but the ache of emptiness, of nothingness. The hurt of watching love pass like a season. My therapist calls this ‘situational depression’. The more you know…