Mourners temporarily lose the ability to reflect on the past and dream of the future. In his book A Grace Disguised, Jerry Sittser describes the sacred “eternal presence” of those who experience catastrophic loss: reflecting the past becomes painful for the grieved because of the multitudes of memories with their loved one, and, simultaneously thoughts of the future create pain because of the absence of their loved one.

In this prison of the present, grievers become sacredly aware of the ordinary and mundane. It provides a chance to slow down, evaluate priorities, and reconsider one’s life with the most basic wants and desires at the forefront of one’s mind.

Oftentimes, this accompanies a strong desire to be close to one’s remaining surviving family. This catastrophic grief provides the opportunity to shelter together and requires the bereaved to relearn how to exist with an “amputated self,” as Sittser describes. The “amputated self” describes the loss of identity that a mourner suffers — it’s questions about one’s identity like Who am I without my Mom?

Catastrophic loss quiets the background noise of one’s life. It destroys, entirely, the life we once knew and the life we once hoped for. In the initial months and years of catastrophic loss, it can feel impossible to believe that a good life is possible when the one who made life so good is no longer with us because we lose the ability to dream of a good life.

It’s the 29th day without my Mom. That thought sickens me. It’s an excruciating reality, and I still don’t want to believe it. I’m so sad that tomorrow is truly an entire month without her. I cannot describe how dreadful that feels. I just miss my Momma. I wish this wasn’t real.