I’m gonna be honest, this article is more manifesto than memoir. I’d just like to describe an aspiration that’s been brewing in me for a while— something I’ve only begun to dip my toe into, but would love to someday be able to swim in.

Basically, I’d like to start getting more comfortable with being uncomfortable. Sitting within my own tension allows me to look at things critically, including myself, and what makes me tick. (Important to note: when I say “critically,” I don’t necessarily mean negatively/unkindly; I mean it more as an effort at understanding, at seeing the gears at work underneath the larger behavioral machine.)

Let’s face it, it would be an understatement to say that growth isn’t a comfortable process. Discomfort is often a pre-requisite for growth, a rite of passage as you outgrow that which doesn’t serve you anymore. It’s proof of life. It’s human.

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Safety vs. Self-Sabotage

Just as discomfort is human, though, so, too, is the avoidance of discomfort— courtesy of that primal, caveman part of the brain that wants you to be safe… but not necessarily happy.1 Trusting your instincts is important, but so is looking for the root of those instincts. For example, sometimes it’s worth overriding an instinct to avoid, if you recognize that the root of that instinct is your brain simply trying to repeat the patterns it recognizes. Oftentimes, the subconscious’s understanding of the word “safe” leans more toward “familiar,” rather than “free from danger.” In other words, the brain, when left unchecked, will consistently subscribe to the “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” philosophy. This is something that can often lead a person into the same destructive or abusive patterns, simply because their brain knows and understands them, and to avoid embarking on the scariness of the unknown, the new.

“The brain’s job is to keep you alive. Not make you happy or well behaved. And it is obsessed with doing its job well.”

―Devina King, Surviving To Thriving: The Art and Science of Guiding Children To Develop Behavioral Regulation

Not gonna lie, I get spooked whenever I realize that what I thought were well-reasoned decisions on my part were actually just the product of unchecked shadow work. That peeling back the mask on certain decisions reveals the true culprit: my own subconscious.

The feeling when you realize that what you thought was keeping you safe— keeping you from getting hurt, acting for your own well-being— was actually the thing hurting you? It’s unsettling, to say the least. There you were, thinking you were consciously making healthy, unbiased decisions for your greater good, that your hands were locked in at 10 and 2 on the wheel, mirrors checked, foot on the pedal, when, in reality, you’d been merely gripping a kid’s toy steering wheel in the backseat, and your subconscious had been driving all along.

Noticing when this phenomenon is at play has felt like suddenly catching a thief in the dead of night with a spotlight, or even like when the troublemaker in class is caught and reprimanded, but everyone knows they’re going to get right back to wreaking havoc as soon as the teacher faces the board again. The usual suspects of emotional responses arise: Horror. Shock. Awe. Disbelief. But also, maybe, just maybe, a little begrudging acceptance of its inevitability.

It’s when you start to embark on the new, take your personal road less traveled, or push yourself out of your comfort zone, that you start to feel that tension, your nerves pulling taut as the subconscious caveman brain cautions you against it. That part of your brain wants you to believe that it knows the best path— you know, that trusty one it’s traveled the most and knows oh-so-well— and that, honestly, there isn’t any other viable option anyway. What your subconscious doesn’t want you to realize is that, if you were to recognize its desperation for what it is, and instead pause to look around, you’d discover that you’ve actually approached a crossroads. That there is a way to seize control— to choose your path— after all.

I’m trying to pay more attention to the moments when I feel uncomfortable, when I’m stuck in a rut, or when I’m feeling a strong, seemingly unexplained impulse. Beyond that, though, I’m then trying to examine the why that’s at play, behind the scenes.

Watching the show Couple’s Therapy last year and starting the new season this year has, for me, been an exercise in therapy via osmosis— an opportunity to learn from others’ experiences and challenges, thanks to the different couples’ vulnerability in each season. The therapist, Orna, often guides the participating couples to discover how old patterns might be repeating, how they might be recreating their parents’ relationships, etc. She challenges them to not simply answer “I don’t know” to a difficult question— or one they hadn’t considered before— but rather to seek an answer, to sit with the tension that arises, and to examine what comes up.

An extension of this overall conversation is the breaking of generational patterns and trauma chains. Certainly not a comfortable or easy experience, and not one that will win you favor with many family members, but a valuable and often necessary one, nonetheless.

Not only does examining your own discomfort help you individually, but it also helps you be a better and healthier friend, family member, etc. So maybe we should all get a little more comfortable with some discomfort. With sitting with a friend who’s hurting, and not trying to solve that which can’t be solved. With letting things be done the way you wouldn’t have done them. With releasing your grip on control. With stepping up when you want to shy away. With asking for the promotion. With talking to a stranger. With asking for the things you want. With setting boundaries that other people might not be thrilled about. Who knows, maybe enduring all those growing pains is necessary in order to achieve… well… growth.

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Being in the Wrong

Part of sitting in my own tension, getting comfortable with being uncomfortable, is acknowledging the gray area of my own morality, history, and identity. After all, where is the true value in shutting down any possible valid critique of yourself, besides simply avoiding discomfort? I’m trying to look back at events in my past, and allow myself to see the things I had done wrong or opinions I had once held but now disagree with for what they are, without letting my perception immediately slip to the extreme of suddenly labeling myself the “villain.” Viewing yourself in black and white is a quick way to either (a) continue falling deeper into self-brutality and hopelessness, or (b) trigger a reactionary pendulum swing back to the other extreme of refusing to acknowledge ever having been in the wrong. Both alternatives result in stagnancy, with no opportunity for true personal growth or progression. So… where is the path forward? From what I can tell, it resides in neither the black nor the white, but rather, somewhere in the gray.

Learning to sit with being the person in the wrong is so deeply difficult and uncomfortable. Immediately, I want to speed-run any potential solutions in order get to a place where I’m not in the hot seat anymore. But perhaps part of the work is owning that discomfort, carrying it, and learning to shapeshift and adjust my perception of myself to account for the new information it reveals. That way, I can allow myself a little more humanity. Permit myself to be fallible.

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“No Pain, No Gain”

There’s a lot to be said for proving to yourself that you’re capable of something difficult. In an effort to provide/explore somatic therapy, I started doing yin yoga about a year ago, which is a slow style of yoga that utilizes supports so that you can hold poses for longer periods of time. The practice is quite literally about proving to yourself that, yes, you can in fact do hard things. You can sit in your own discomfort for prolonged periods of time. You are the one in the driver’s seat, and there is value in both what sitting in the tension communicates to yourself subconsciously (i.e. “you are worthy of the effort”) and what you actively discover through the practice. It’s only by sitting in the tension of that pose that you can then relax further into it, can release some of that tension, and can become more limber, and, by extension, open to growth.

How interesting is it that, even in an article about sitting in one’s own tension, I’m so quick to start generalizing and distancing the conversation from myself? Granted, part of this is due to the medium and the awareness of an audience, but I think a good portion of it has to do with an avoidance of difficult emotional/behavioral work.

Much like with grief, it can sometimes be easy to get caught up in the theory and the symptoms, to distract from the pain and reality of the loss.

I’ve had to go back and retrace my steps after writing some sections, changing some general uses of the word “you” to “me,” to re-examine and bring the conversation back to my personal experience, and not simply write about theory, not just talk around the topic and experience.

I think the vulnerability required to write these articles with my own experience in mind is yet another instance of needing to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Putting yourself out there inevitably causes anxiety, at least for me. The anxiety spiral of preparing for the worst case scenario/wanting to take things back/regretting neutral actions is less often a response to true danger, and more often a response to stepping outside the comfort zone. The challenge, therefore, becomes recognizing the impulse to veer into anxiety for what it is, and then telling yourself that, actually, it’s okay to feel a little awkward. To be vulnerable. To put yourself out there. It’ll be good for you.

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The Postscript

I just wanted to provide a little insight into why this has been on my mind lately. Grief has restructured so much about me, including my relationship with time and my perception of priorities. It’s surreal, and it feels like now my time is measured in days, months, years since my dad’s passing. My dad died on April 14, 2025, and it seems that, now, late April to mid May has become my new January. It feels like second-nature, subconscious, obvious even, to be taking a second now to examine the past year, look down at where my feet are planted to take a litmus test of my present moment, and look with some potential resolve to the year ahead. Side note, but I keep forgetting that other people aren’t starting their year right now, too. That this isn’t the time that everyone else is also talking about New Year’s Resolutions. I’ll see a goal-setting post and be like, “Well yeah, it’s that time of year.” But… it’s not. Not for most people.

A lot of things have come to mind over the course of the past year— the concept/rough draft for this article, for example, was started a few months ago— but it’s only now that those thoughts, goals, etc. seem to be gathering some weight, stepping to the forefront of my mind in a slightly more tangible, determined way.

Year 2 has already had a different energy to it. Initially, it was marked by a lot of fear of the grief, of the sheer enormity of it. But, likely as a direct response to that fear, I’ve been also noticing a trend within myself of wanting to grow in spite of that, of wanting to reach goals— of even wanting in the first place. Maybe it’s inherent in the timing, looking back at the first year after a major loss, and feeling like nothing happened since then, like you’ve stayed the same, almost in a paralysis, as the world has continued spinning. It feels very Rip van Winkle. Conversations I’ve been meaning to continue, and things on my mind from a year ago are popping back up again, almost as if no time has passed at all. There’s a simultaneous floating, “time-isn’t-real” feeling that accompanies a bone-chilling existential undercurrent of terror when I face the not-so-simple fact: An entire year has gone by. And I’ve stayed… still? I know it’s not exactly the case, that a lot has happened in the interim, that I’ve grown and learned more about myself and the world around me, etc., etc. But that’s not as easy to keep in mind when you zoom out like this. It feels like being in the middle of a conversation with someone, looking away briefly to consider their question, and then, as you start to turn back to them with your answer, you realize they’re gone. The room is empty, no one’s been in there for months. You’ve lost time. Maybe you’ve lost your mind?

At the same time, all of this sparks a quasi-quest in you: to act with more intentionality, to find meaning, to find purpose, to do something with the next year, with the time you have.

Which is all well and good, but let’s not forget: You’re still in that empty room, hanging on to the end of a conversation that was long abandoned, feeling wrong and spooked out, and not sure how to get your bearings. This is why I’m being so loose with and adding disclaimers in my language around goals, intentions, quests, etc. It’s difficult to set concrete goals in a still-vulnerable state, to try to build a permanent, or long-standing structure on ground that has proven itself time and again— for over a year— to be constantly shifting. It’s difficult to trust that said ground would remain steady for long enough to even estimate a topographical map for planning a blueprint, let alone constructing a foundation.

All of this to say, it’s nice to feel like I’m at a place in my life/grief journey where I’m even able to look a few feet ahead of me, to try to do things for myself, set goals for myself. To plan. To strive. To grow. But I’m also trying to be kind to myself, to recognize that this might need to be a slow process, to prepare for the likely possibility that a goal built on a terrain of grief might, like the grief itself, not end up taking a linear path. That, sure, it would be easier, more comfortable, for things to be straightforward, streamlined, fast. But the slow process is equally valuable. The growth is worth the discomfort.

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Highly inspired by sihaam’s spiral series on Web Weaving 🌀, I embarked on the journey of a media post-mortem. Taking account of the media I’ve consumed this past month was more rewarding than I had expected, and really encouraged more mindfulness in my selection, consumption, and consideration afterwards.

Feels weird to be posting an April wrap-up halfway through March. The truth is, I’ve had the graphics created for this for ages, but I’ve been held back by the writing portion, which is all the more reason that this exercise is useful for me right now. I’m getting a little too used to consumption, and I’m out of practice with analysis— drawing my own conclusions, snatching what would otherwise be passing thoughts in order to write them down and examine them in a tangible, more intentional way.

Utopian & Dystopian Technology

I love me some dystopian/utopian fiction, and the thought exercises it brings up. Last month, I consumed a decent amount of media about the ways in which advancing technology— both in reality and in fiction— impacts how we see and relate to both ourselves and each other. Within the genre’s broader “What would you do?” questions lie some bigger questions about life in the modern era.

The Amazing Digital Circus (TADC) [5], an indie animated series on YouTube created, written, and directed by Gooseworx and produced by Glitch Productions, is inspired by the short story “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” by Harlan Ellison. Both stories indirectly ask the viewer, “What would you do if you found out you’re a digital clone of yourself, and you’re now being tortured by the AI that controls your digital landscape, with seemingly no way to escape?” The original story presents a bleak, visceral answer to the question, whereas TADC seems to (thus far) propose a more optimistic answer in its undercurrent: finding a way forward by discovering and nurturing any humanity that remains, both in yourself and in the other people trapped in this new world. Creation, developing relationships, learning— all ways to pass the time while also finding some fulfillment in this new reality.

The first episode of Soulmates on Netflix (each episode follows a different cast of characters, and I wasn’t super interested in continuing the rest of the series) interrogates free will and fate (or at least, the series’ more scientific version of fate). If there was a way to find out who your “soulmate” is— even if you’re already in a loving, committed relationship— would you want to know? If you don’t choose to find out, would that decision haunt you? If you do choose to find out, what would you do with the information? Is a chosen love better than a love prescribed? What does “better” even mean, in this case? Happier? More fulfilled?

Ultimately, a lot of questions of purpose, of how to go about achieving a fulfilling life. Oftentimes, this relies on agency, and genuine human connection/community. Unfortunately, though, the philosophical quest to lead a fulfilling life ends up butting up against the things that divide us, that delegate some of these fulfilling acts, or make them more artificial. Technological advances can present one of these roadblocks; they simultaneously create opportunities while also generating limitations for their users. The goal then becomes, not only how to lead a fulfilling life, but also how to maintain humanity, a sense of community, and genuine connection in the face of these modern limitations in order to do so.

Make the Thing, Just Do You

Kind of as an extension of that topic of leading a fulfilling life, I’ve been seeing a lot of things this past month that have been motivational in regards to creating the thing you’ve been wanting to create or being the person you’re destined to be, regardless of what others might think (or, in Kumail Nanjiani’s case, for example, in gleeful spite of what others might think [3]).

Some of these pieces are about creating or becoming, like The Christophers [12], the Kumail video [3] , Fern Brady’s autobiography [7], and the substack article from the search [13].

Others are, in and of themselves, examples of that creating or becoming within their meta— i.e. products of that process—, like Nirami’s animations [1], The Amazing Digital Circus [2], Hoppers [4], English Teacher [5], Spilling Your Seed [6], compilations of/interviews about Fern Brady on Taskmaster [8] [9], Chi’s series with the BBC [10], Kat Abughazaleh’s career journey [11].

Inspiring to see people just create what they imagine, to go for what they want to, to discover themselves, to have the courage they do— in spite of public opinion or any preexisting mental blocks of their own. If there isn't a space, job, or identity that fits them well enough, they create their own. From the outsider’s perspective, any failures to conform to preexisting spaces, are simply instances of character development— further evidence of how necessary it is to create spaces of their own.

Innovation vs. Imitation: The Price of Selling Out

All of that being said, there’s also been a fascinating through-line last month of content that covers the distinctions between innovation and imitation, or more specifically, what it means to “sell out.”

The Christophers [1] follows a woman who is hired to forge/complete a series of unfinished paintings by a famous artist, and as a result, digs into the topic of art as authentic expression vs. the craft of stylistic regurgitation/going through the motions. How it can be seen as cheap, and is often frowned down upon: to not have an artistic voice of one’s own, and to instead seek to impersonate others.

I consumed a lot of content last month about Katseye, too. You can tease the broader conversation that’s taking place into two sub-topics/themes: one about the trajectory of the group’s identity (covering the topics of selling out, having a voice, authenticity) and another about Manon (the member who has been on hiatus, potentially not to return to the group, and the subsequent topics of the treatment of black women in these spaces, and potential reasons for the split).

There’s something about the newest song and music video, the direction the group has taken, that just strikes me as so… cynical? Like the Powers That Be™ are chasing an algorithm, older men in suits trying vaguely to appeal to a younger, largely female audience. Gnarly was as effective as it was because it was a different direction that felt more authentic to the girls. It was risky, fun, and shook things up, and the choreography sealed its virality. The members were excited and involved in the concept, with obvious hesitation mixed in because of how far of a jump it was from their SIS era. Gabriela came next, and felt like confirmation of an exciting new era for the group, one marked by genre experimentation, honoring the different cultures and languages in the group, and showcasing their vocals. Since then, we’ve seen attempt after attempt to manufacture Gnarly’s lightning in a bottle, with songs like Internet Girl and Pinky Up; increased use of advertisements as art; and a dual trend of decreasing clothing and increasing sexualization, especially after Yoonchae, the youngest member, turned 18. There’s another conversation to be had here, about female empowerment and internalized misogyny, but I also feel like the sexualization reads more as a function of the larger corporate machine and the male gaze, than it reads as an authentic expression of sexuality. Katseye is a global girl group, but is run with a Kpop mentality. In what ways is it held back by its Kpop roots, by the entertainment machine at large? Are they being sabotaged intentionally for straying too far from the norm?

Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu centers a character that often exists in the literal margins of stories: The Asian Man. Constantly relegated to stereotyped roles, Yu’s protagonist, Willis, fights against his constraints, both external and internal. Being told you can’t do something time and again is something that will grow roots in you, regardless of whether you want otherwise or logically know it isn’t true. Dismantling your own internalized limitations and cultural biases is hard work, but necessary if you want to have any hope of breaking free. Easier said than done, but still— something to learn from, to use as a lens to examine one’s own life, the things at play in one’s own subconscious.

Just because something is easy, or has always been done this way, should it continue/should you follow suit?

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Tension between Authentic Expression & Cultural Bias

There’s a lot of overlap between the previous topic and this one. I’m going to include some Venn diagrams here, and maybe I’ll revisit this piece to write my thoughts out a bit more later:

Power Dynamics, Personalities, & Hierarchy

One of my favorite things about Survivor [1] [5] [6] is seeing the social game at play, observing how people organize themselves into hierarchy and alliances. It’s fascinating to see the lengths players will go to in order to move the game in their direction while also maintaining likability or flying under the radar enough to make it to the end. We see similar dynamics in Triangle of Sadness [3], too, but I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it. The ways in which we signal to each other our places in the hierarchy is so old-world and also… monarchic? You see this pattern often enough in Survivor: the King/Queen dynamic. Watching the strategists on Survivor calls to mind a bunch of things, like Game of Thrones (specifically Varys’s character), chess games, monarchies of old, the creation and deconstruction of hierarchy and government in Red Rising, childhood games of Red Light/Green Light, and more. You want to play the middle, appeal to both sides, but also don’t want to be caught doing it. You want to pull the strings in a way that isn’t too visible or obtrusive to the other players during the game, while also recognizable enough to provide evidence for why you deserve to win at the final tribal.

The Duality of Grief & Eucatastrophe

“Eucatastrophe is joy poignant as grief. The joy cannot be truly felt in a world where grief isn't possible.” — An Academic Affair by Jodi McAlister

The anniversary of my dad’s passing was at the middle of the month, and March and the beginning of April was characterized by a lot of escapism. Fascinating how, even though grief was front and center in my mind throughout that month, it wasn’t in a lot of the content I was consuming— likely by design.

The Postscript

Noticed there are lots of video essays and podcast episodes— I like listening to them while working, doing a puzzle, cooking, etc. That said, it’s good to go back through them and separate the ones that really stuck out to me, while also noticing the history of things I watched/listened to, without remembering much of anything from them. (I didn’t include any of those in the rabbit hole, though, because I wanted to pay more attention to things that seem to have consciously made an impact). So crazy to see it all in black and white, how much much noise there is in general, but also how much I invite into my life, into my brain.

This exercise in examining the media I consumed during the month was heavily inspired by sihaam’s spiral series on Web Weaving 🌀— highly, highly recommend:

Web Weaving 🌀

the spiral: april edition

As a writer, video essayist and web weaver, I end up consuming a LOT of film, books and TV. Last month, I happened upon the themes interlinking each facet of my consumption, which of course led me to do this as a monthly exercise: grouping my consumption into themes and ideas to better help me understand what I consume, and most importantly: why…

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a month ago · 24 likes · 1 comment · sihaam

Web Weaving 🌀

A blog weaving together film, art, culture, and micro-essays fuelled by the internet.

By sihaam

I’ve reworked this intro multiple times, never quite feeling satisfied with it, but not fully knowing why. I think there’s a level of self consciousness at play, a fear of seeming like I have more of a grasp on (or control over) grief than I do. That seeking to understand someone else’s process communicates a level of already having “mastered” my own. As though I view grief that’s different from my own much like an exotic animal at the zoo, complete with ogling at and tapping on the glass of its enclosure. Lots of overthinking going on over here... Can you tell that one of the bigger side-effects of my grief lately has been insecurity?

I struggled with the framing of this article, with ironing out its precise purpose. I feel like it will be useful for me to revisit this post, to have this as a helpful refresher with most of the key quotes and findings in one location to reference. I’d like it to be useful for other people, too, but I wonder how much of myself and my experience with grief is the right amount to include— how much is helpful vs. how much distracts from the reader’s goal (whatever that might be). Should this be more of a book report/summary/review, an academic article, or a journal entry/memoir? I wasn’t quite sure, so the result ended up landing somewhere in the middle.

My siblings, mom, and I all grieve differently, and, as a result, our processes will sometimes bump up against each other. I was curious about my brother’s in particular, because, from the outside looking in, it almost felt like our processes were inverses of one another. Granted, both were neutral— i.e. one wasn’t the “right way to grieve” with the other being “the wrong way to grieve”— but they seemed to move in opposite directions. How does one know what’s normal for another’s process vs. what should be “concerning”? From different grief groups and sources, I had come to understand that the grieving process tends to look different for men, but I was curious and sought to understand it better. So, without further ado, I started researching.

Flash forward to me reading “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, LCSW. I really found this book at the right time in my own grief journey, when I was beginning to earnestly seek ways to be less at the whim of my grief cycle/pattern, and instead try to make a more intentional effort to incorporate grief into my day-to-day life, to engage its release valve and tap into the feelings more often, if possible. It felt like it would be kinder to myself. I didn’t realize that what I was yearning for was, as Golden puts it, ritual.

This book feels like such a kindness to male and female audiences alike. Golden provides his readers with “a map of the terrain” (which also happens to be the first on his list of “What aids the masculine?” in the book), and outlines the process of grief and the ways in which people tend to approach it, with steps and variables, as well as metaphors and real-life examples. He takes the subjective, amorphous, immense, seemingly taboo, and not-spoken-about-enough topic of grief and makes it a little more tangible. It’s so generous, to provide a griever with some feeling of relief and stability within something that often feels like it doesn’t even have a foothold. But Golden manages to do all of this while still taking care not to venture into oversimplification or downplaying the emotional work involved. He makes it clear to the reader that grief is not a pathology or something to be solved or quickly “gotten over”— an important thing to point out when the cultural impulse can be to speed-run things and check off boxes.

I loved the ways that this book touched upon biology, sociology, communication styles, shadow work, attachment styles, and more. Golden counter-weighs his claims time and again with the point that, though there are larger grieving patterns that tend to differ between the genders, the grief process is still an individually unique one that blends methods, and isn’t strictly black or white.

“Women use masculine modes of healing just as men use the feminine. The important thing is finding our unique balance of masculine and feminine energies and honoring our own path.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 129

So much of what we think we know is based on biased sample sets, or mistakenly applying circumstance-specific findings too broadly, playing fast and loose and painting with too wide an academic brush. A few examples: Kübler-Ross outlined The Five Stages of Grief as a pattern that emerges specifically for people receiving a terminal diagnosis, but the broader culture has taken it and tried to apply it as a step-by-step guide to grief as a whole. According to Golden, the “Fight or Flight” response is based on a biased pool, largely men. He also informs us that most of our view of therapy is also based on a biased pool of primarily women, which raises some interesting questions.

When we take information that’s the “function of a biased sample”1 as universal truth, we of course leave out the minority— or less-represented— group in that sphere. As a result, we end up less informed and harm, not only the underrepresented group, but also ourselves as an entire collective. Acknowledging these misconceptions and gaps in knowledge is the first step, followed by seeking to re-educate ourselves. Thankfully, reading this book felt like a step in the right direction.

So, it’s all kind of a mess, but… we’re getting there? Hopefully?

In his book, Golden encourages a widening of the scope, and, by extension, a little more understanding of and empathy toward different communication styles and grief processes. While reading “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing,” I, as intended, began to understand my brother’s process a little more. But what surprised me while reading was how much it reminded me of and brought clarity to my perception of my father’s grieving process with his dad, and also how the book helped me better understand different facets and evolutions of my own shifting grief process. Widening the scope, indeed.

“Swallowed by a Snake”

Let’s begin with the titular story: Once upon a time, a giant boa constrictor was terrorizing a village. The village’s local flute player went out into the woods, playing his flute to summon the snake. The boa swallowed him whole, and, within the belly of the snake, the flute player had to learn to exist there and was faced with the challenge of learning to methodically work his way out.

Flute-Playing to Summon Your Boa

The man in the story plays his flute to get into the snake - oftentimes, people will use their strengths, creative or otherwise, to access their grief in safe ways.

“With our void of socially-endorsed grieving rituals, men have had to be creative in finding active ways to lead them into their boa. Many times the activities that men find, like our protagonist’s flute playing, will be related to their psychological strengths. Finding and using this strength as a means to enter into grief is a vital exercise for men.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

Some of you might be asking, “But why would I even need to ‘summon’ it? My grief is always present, always in the back of my mind, or weighing on me, mentally and physically.” You’d know best how you’re feeling in your brain and body, so take inventory and proceed however feels right. Perhaps you’re already in the belly of the snake; in my experience, in early grief or around certain milestones, depending on your grieving style, it can be easy to stumble into the boa without even needing to pick up your flute.

But also, you could be feeling the impact of untended grief. I can definitely relate to this, experiencing the impact of that grief constantly, and feeling like that surely must already be doing some of the work. The key here, though, is shifting the mindset, of proactively and intentionally interacting with your grief, of facing it head-on. As opposed to letting your grief act on you, you can act on it. (If you’d like, you could click here to skip ahead to the next section and find out more about rituals.)

Existing in the Belly of the Beast

Now that you’re in the belly of the snake, and are in direct contact with the grief, the work begins. Not necessarily the mechanics of the ritual you chose to access the grief, but rather the process of actually dealing with the snake, with the grief. Unpacking, holding space, feeling and expressing your feelings, etc.

“Notice that the flute player did not continue playing once he was in the belly; he had to use other skills in order to deal with the snake. Also notice that his work was not done from the outside, but was accomplished from inside the snake. This is the way it is with grief. We must do this work from the inside, but find our way into it through our strengths.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

Things are different in the belly of the snake, whilst looking your grief in the eye. Your body and brain are impacted and operate differently than they normally do.

“We are cut off from our everyday life, we feel that our existence is confined, and we are surrounded by our grief like the flute player was. Our world is completely changed, going from life as we know it into the belly of a snake. Imagine being in the belly of a huge snake. Dark. A very tight spot. Every place you turn, there is the belly of the snake. The entire environment is this wet, warm, restrictive belly, pulling at you to conform to its wishes. This is similar to the way a person may feel who is experiencing a deep grief. Sometimes the grief takes over, and you feel that your life has to conform to the grief rather than to your own wishes.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

“I’ve seen dark before
But not like this
This is cold
This is empty
This is numb
The life I knew is over
The lights are out
Hello, darkness
I’m ready to succumb”

[…]

“This grief has a gravity
It pulls me down”

— The Next Right Thing, Frozen 2

The skills and toolkit that normally serve you are not necessarily useful here. All of the rules are different now, and learning the terrain is vital.

“When in the belly, we must learn a different way of living. In this dark, restrictive environment our usual skills for living are not particularly effective. The situation calls on us to use parts of ourselves that are not our usual strengths. Instead of seeing clearly what is before us, we might have to grope around, using our sense of touch rather than our eyes. Once our activity has brought us into the belly, we may need to find or develop other skills that will help us in navigating this inner terrain.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

“When I say that grief is a kind of learning, I don’t mean learning something easy. This is not like mastering a specific skill such as riding a bike, learning how to keep our balance and how to use the brakes. This type of learning is like traveling to an alien planet and learning that the air cannot be breathed, and therefore you need to remember to wear oxygen all the time. Or that the day has thirty-two hours, even though your body continues operating as though it has twenty-four. Grief changes the rules of the game, rules that you thought you knew and had been using until this point.”

― Mary-Frances O’Connor, The Grieving Brain: The Surprising Science of How We Learn from Love and Loss

You’re tempted to think you are one with the snake, that there is no way out. But that’s exactly what the snake wants you to think. That is how the snake wins.

Carving Your Way Out

The true way to survive being swallowed by a snake is to carve away at it, piece by piece. Every time you intentionally access your grief and allow it to hold space, you are carving away at the belly of the snake, and slowly but surely getting closer to daylight.

“I won't look too far ahead
It's too much for me to take
But break it down to this next breath
This next step
This next choice is one that I can make”

— The Next Right Thing, Frozen 2

A Process that Demands Ritual

If you are an instrumental griever, it can be helpful to link your grief to an action, place, or thing via ritual in order to further tap into it.

“Ritual is a way for us to consciously take a small sample of our chaos, our grief, and to process that sample in our own time. By doing this, we get to know our grief and our chaos a little bit at a time.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

What do these rituals look like? Annoying answer, but it differs person to person. Rituals tend to be characterized by one or more of the following: Creativity, Practicality, and Mentality. Some rough examples to give you the gist, but by no means encompass everything: Creativity Rituals can look like painting, listening to music, or watching a movie. Practicality Rituals can look like visiting the cemetery, dedicating something in memorial, gardening, or going for a run. Mentality Rituals can look like meditation, journaling, or writing a letter to your loved one.

Overall, “people will tend to practice rituals that align with their strength in order to make contact with their chaos in a safe way.”2 Generally speaking, men and women tend to find safety in very different places, with women seeking support through relationships with others, and men seeking a more private and action-oriented container for their grief ritual. That being said, it’s important to reiterate that each person’s process is individual— just because one form of grieving comes more naturally to you at one point, doesn’t mean the other form isn’t or won’t be valuable to you as well. With the way our processes can ebb, flow, and evolve, there’s always the potential for your secondary mode of grieving to become your primary, for there to be change within how you grieve.

So, anything can be a ritual, right? Sure, but, again, the crucial bit is the intentionality behind whichever ritual you choose— by mentally tying it back to the grief and the person lost, engaging in an action or interacting with a thing allows you to access the grief via external aids:

“In grief rituals, unlike our previously mentioned habits, we are practicing behaviors that consciously and intentionally move us out of our ordinary awareness and into the experience of the pain of grief.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden

I’ve found it interesting to talk to my family members in the wake of our loss/in the midst of our varying processes, and have noticed that we sometimes end up talking about the same things, just in different dialects. Because we have varying ways of learning and thinking about things, we end up with different words to describe similar experiences within our grief. Reading books like this one can deliver a similar feeling, one of excitement, validation, and fascination.

Over the course of the past year, I’ve found certain places to feel like they hold intangible doors through which I can access my grief. Each door is unique, allowing me to view the grief from a different angle, seeing into its different facets and depths. When I began reading Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, and saw how strongly Zauner felt her mother’s presence there, I began to consider what those places might look like for me, places that help me feel my dad’s presence, where I could be strongly reminded of him. Visiting the cemetery, going to the car magazine section of our local Barnes & Noble, and taking a trip to upstate NY to see an art exhibit for Calvin and Hobbes, each brought up unique emotions and memories. For example, peeking my head into that intangible grief door at the Calvin and Hobbes exhibit allowed me to hear my dad’s voice and intonations as he’d read the comics to me as a kid, and brought countless memories to the foreground, including the jokes and panels he found especially funny. Interesting how much the nature of these charged places can vary as well, with some locations being directly related to my dad’s passing and funeral, some locations being the set of specific memories with him, and other locations signifying the future with him in mind— things he would have enjoyed, things he never got to see but I know he’d have loved to, etc. To go a step further, isn’t it fascinating how certain locations linked to the past can bring up sobering thoughts about the “future that could have been,” while locations linked to the future can bring up vivid memories of the past?

Meanwhile, certain items have functioned as talismans (or powerful keys, if we’re sticking with the door metaphor) that can summon these doorways to grief anywhere. My family started a Memory Lane binder and Google Forms questionnaire that allows people to write things about my dad, memories they had with him, about the person he was, about how he touched people’s lives. It’s such a beautiful and valuable way of remembering who he was, how others saw him, and a perfect aid to tap into the grief, wherever we are.

When active, instrumental grieving is your primary mode of grieving, though, our culture isn’t very kind to you. As Golden describes, people with differing processes can be suspicious of or concerned about each other, often manifesting in men thinking women are “overdoing it,” and women thinking men “aren’t grieving at all.”3 While many women, in theory, have resources at their disposal like therapy, grief groups, and conversations with friends that align with their approach to grieving, most grieving men are at more of a cultural disadvantage:

“One of the reasons that men tend to have an easier time in connecting their grief with action is that men have a harder time in connecting their emotions with words. […] This preference for action puts men in a precarious state when grief strikes because in our culture almost all of the activities related to death have been contracted out.”

“Eulogies are one of the last remnants of active grief rituals in our culture.”

“It was my experience, and that of other men I have known who have given eulogies, that it was an important event in our lives. The memory of speaking, or sometimes writing, carries on through the cycle of grief and becomes a marker for the experience. By remembering the act of speaking, we connect with the feelings that were present at the time and those that continue. Somehow it is easier to remember the act of speaking and the associated feelings than to simply “remember” how one felt. It is easier to talk about the eulogy you gave than simply talking about the feelings. The act becomes a hook for the expression of emotion, even as the grief continues.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 136-137 ; Pg 143; Pg 143-144

My dad died in the week leading up to Easter, and, according to Catholic tradition, funerals aren’t held until after the holiday. Among other things, this meant we had a little extra time for preparations, and so my family and I designed custom funeral cards and put a lot of effort into making the space for his wake really communicate the person he was. People who hadn’t met my dad came up to us after going around the rooms to tell us they felt that, through looking at all the things we had put out, they really got to know him. Nothing felt “good” at the time, but this? This, at least, felt right. It’s what he deserved.

We each spoke at my dad’s funeral, with individual eulogies. I’m grateful we did, because each one was different enough, that it felt like we each played a part in shading in different aspects of a portrait of my dad for the congregation. We included those eulogies in our Memory Binder alongside people’s submissions.

All of this to say, I don't know how much of this truly felt like ritual to really process the grief in the moment— so much of the early grief, especially the days leading up to the services, was characterized by heavy fog and an intent on just surviving/enduring, even with our ears still ringing from the bomb that had gone off in our lives. However, Golden is right: these rituals really do function as a marker for that time— the feelings, the experience. It also helps to have the physical copies of the eulogies in the binder, to have photos and video of the setup for the wake, etc. Those things become a ritual in and of themselves, a talisman/key to access the grief.

I just want to note some things this brought up, memory-wise, for me about my dad’s grieving process for his own father. The eulogy he gave at his dad’s funeral was an immensely significant act for him, and he kept the folded paper he had written it on in his sock drawer. I spoke about it in my own eulogy, how I remember him sitting with me at the end of his and my mom’s bed, unfolding that paper, and reading it to me. At that time, it had been one of the few times I had seen him cry/get misty-eyed. Writing about it now, I feel like I’m remembering something else, that he might have gotten a little choked up at one point toward the end, and I read the rest for him.

He would visit the cemetery often, on Father’s Day and his dad’s birthday— a Practicality Ritual that’s very common for men, according to Golden. I remember being a kid and not being particularly thrilled about it, but looking back on it now, I’m grateful for how much of his grieving process I got to witness, and how certain aspects of his were able to help guide my own. I’ve spoken aloud about that at the gravesite when I’ve visited in the past year, thanking him for modeling his grief for us, for being the exceptional person and father he was.

Take it like a Man: The Submissive Act of Grieving

“Grief is no respecter of a man’s need for respect. […] No longer do we have a choice about stuffing this or that feeling, or putting something off. Grief demands emoting, and it demands it not on our time schedule, but on its own.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 64

Grief and masculinity can often be at odds with each other, demanding the griever to submit to the feelings— the impact— regardless of one’s preference, time, or location. It’s a daunting thing to reckon with. In his chapter on helplessness, Golden explains, “Not only are we powerless in the face of death, we also now are seemingly powerless in the face of this thing called grief.”4 The loss of control and stability within grief is, I believe, a universal struggle for people suffering a major loss, but there’s something a bit more at play when it comes to men’s experience.

Isolating Grief Submission from other forms of Submission

Where is the line drawn between compassion and disdain? One has to be aware of a certain level of compassion fatigue when it comes to this topic, of merely wanting to will things to be different. It calls to mind a person telling a depressed person to “just smile” or an anxious person to “not worry about it.” Some things are easier said than done, especially from an outsider’s perspective.

Bit of a detour, but bear with me: Reading Golden’s section on Submission5 reminded me of an interview with Kristen Stewart by The Times (if you haven’t seen it yet, highly recommend— it’s a thought-provoking watch). In the video, Stewart speaks about how acting is “inherently submissive,” and how men often have to act out in other ways (seemingly needing to “beat their chests”) to make the process of acting okay for them— to perform it in a way that feels less submissive, and to “protrude out of the vulnerability a little bit.” The part I’m talking about starts at 16:03, if you want to watch:

One key difference between acting and grieving is consent. An actor elects to take on a role, quite literally signing a contract to begin, to assume the “submissive” position of being someone else’s “mouthpiece,” as Stewart puts it. With that in mind, Stewart’s disdain for the absurdity of doing all of that while also wanting to rail against it— an almost “have your cake and eat it too” phenomenon— makes a whole lot of sense, especially when the broader gender politics are taken into account. For example, Stewart expresses a frustration with the way that “men are aggrandized for retaining self” when refusing to fully submit to the process of acting, and with the double standard as it applies to women, i.e. how they’d be treated if they were to act in the same way.

Now contrast that with grief: You do not willingly enter into a contract with grief. It imposes itself upon you. The automatic reluctance to submit that arises, therefore, is fairly natural and reasonable. When it comes to comparing any process that involves men’s voluntary submission and the process of grief (which involves involuntary submission), it might seem easy to overlook the consent aspect in order to conflate the two circumstances and responses. However, I think it’s important for us to instead live in those nuances, to potentially critique one circumstance, while also leaving room to understand— and perhaps express compassion for— the other.

Finding safe spaces

Maybe this is a suggestion that comes more from a “feminine” perspective than a “masculine” one— think person with a hammer seeing everything as a nail— but it seems that one path forward lies in creating a culture that’s safer for men to be more vulnerable. Golden describes what tends to happen when men grieve more openly, like a family encouraging the father to grieve and feel his feelings, only for them to be “afraid of” him when it happens, suddenly becoming unsure about the dynamics and calling everything into question. It’s frustrating and unfortunate to consider, but nonetheless is many a man’s reality.

It’s hardly a surprise that men don’t grieve in the same way as women, when the culture is not conducive to it— in other words, the more intuitive or social methods of grieving don’t often create (or exist within) spaces that are safe for men to be vulnerable.

“In grieving, a lack of submission is usually a refusal to allow the chaos of grief into your consciousness. It is saying “no” to the grief. The primary reason for this is that the container does not feel safe enough.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 36

In a process that so often removes consent from the equation, finding the few things you can control to limit your suffering is vital, and ultimately a kindness to yourself. Golden’s description of not wanting to grieve when “the container does not feel safe enough” reminds me of Megan Devine’s description of the “timing mismatch” in her book “It’s OK That You’re Not OK”:

“So there’s something important here about right timing: thoughts about how you’ll live inside this grief need to match what you are currently living. If something (even in this very book) feels offensive to you, it’s probably not a good match for where you are: there’s a timing mismatch.”

“Part of living with grief is learning to discern who is safe and who is not, who is worthy and who is not. Part of living with grief is also learning to discern, for yourself, your own right timing in sharing this with others.”

“It’s OK to be cautious about what you share and when. Your grief is not an open book, and it doesn’t have to be. When, where, and with whom you share will shift and change over time, and sometimes even within the same day, but you always get to choose.”

— “It’s OK That You’re Not OK” by Megan Devine

Are we yet again painting with too wide a brush? After all, there’s only so much control you have within grief. Ultimately, though, it can be empowering to find things that suit your process, to establish boundaries, and to reclaim your agency as a griever— even when those things may be few and far between.

The author provides additional examples, like AA meetings and therapy, as other instances in which men have difficulty with the requirement to submit. This relates back to what Deborah Tannen refers to in her book “You Just Don’t Understand” as men’s “independence” mindset, which relies on information exchange, hierarchy, and finding solutions. Thankfully, Golden presents a potential solution he’s noticed: in the case of therapy, for example, this independence mindset can be appeased by the man and his therapist treating their sessions as a consulting arrangement, with the grief therapist acting as a consultant.

On the Subject of Biology

Something else to consider is the biology of it all— Golden points out how it can be easier for a man to access his emotions first through anger, rather than sadness, which is a more open and vulnerable emotion.6 He talks about how it’s difficult for people who pride themselves on their physical strength and problem solving abilities to accept weakness in the face of something as all-encompassing as grief. Furthermore, as Golden cites, crying tends to not be as biologically natural for men as it is for women.

This reminded me of an episode of the My Favorite Lyrics podcast, in which the host, Devon Walker, spoke with his guest, Reggie Conquest, about crying, and how it differs between the genders. (See below, 31:43-33:37)

In Devon’s and Reggie’s experience, men tend to cry on their own but also not as often as women, citing a likely hormonal reason/it not being “how their body works”. They also observe how, when women cry, it looks like it’s cathartic, and almost envying that to a certain extent. Something else to note in their discussion, though, is that their methods of accessing that side of their feelings are instrumental ones, based in ritual, specifically using music and solitude to access their tears/sadness.

“By crying you are deconstructing. The tears are the expression of the pain of the grief. You are releasing the pain associated with this loss, […]. Each time you do this you are closer to a point of being able to reconstruct new habits that are not based on the old self. By “pulling yourself together” you are leaving the contained space and re-entering the ordinary world.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 54

As a side note, I’m all too aware that the whole distinction of feminine vs. masculine grieving relies heavily on assuming that everyone subscribes to two genders, and doesn’t take into account the specific contours of non-binary and transgender folks’ grieving processes. Starting the book was a tough pill to swallow from that perspective, facing the binary “boy = blue ; girl = pink” of it all. I think the underlying information, though, is valuable, and, at the very least, is a jumping-off point for more findings to take place and for more stories to be told. I’m curious about how AFAB and AMAB people experience the stripping-down effects of grief, about the triggers that re-awaken for them in grief, about their actual process and whether it has friction with how those around them may have gendered expectations of their process, about how trans people on T or estrogen experience the biological situation Golden speaks about with crying, etc., and so much more. Even those questions themselves are probably framed with too much unconscious bias, or assume too much, though. Am I seeking to understand on a human level, or am I simply tapping on the glass? What work am I willing to do to find out?

No Man an Island: Supporting Each Other’s Processes

I’m hoping this section will be helpful for those trying to support a man who’s grieving or even for grievers trying to find the language for what they need. I’ll certainly be referring back to it.

Groups/Family

When it comes to supporting people who are grieving, it’s important to go out of your way to meet them on their level, i.e. to align with their process. Golden shares how his wife had the idea to work on a family project together that aligned with his late father’s personality, interests, and wishes, and honored Golden’s own activity-based process.7 Perhaps finding a project to work on together, joining the griever for a run, etc. could be a good way to relate to them, show support, and help them with constructing that safe container for their grief ritual, or for escapism— whatever they need.

Tips for Communicating 1-on-1

When it comes to speaking to a grieving man 1-on-1, Golden advises against asking a man generally how he feels; this question could trigger the normal “fine, how are you?” pleasantry-responses that are hard-wired in all of us. Instead, he recommends asking something that might align with how a male griever’s brain has likely already been sorting experiences hierarchically, like “What’s the toughest thing about your loss?”8

Because accessing those feelings doesn’t come as naturally to men, their reply to your question might take a little time. It doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t there, or that they’re necessarily unwilling to access them. Give men a chance to express their feelings, give them time.9 And try to challenge yourself not to fill in any blanks— try to avoid changing the call for an open-ended answer to a mere multiple choice question. Not only does this present a convenient reason not to do the hard work of accessing and dissecting the feelings, but it also could have the side effect of making the man feel misunderstood/unheard and see you as potentially creating an unsafe container.

As an extension of the recommendation to give the man time to reply, Golden suggests writing to them/texting them instead of talking to them. As an aside, I found this interesting because it’s very inverse to my own process, which flinches back from texting and instead gravitates toward verbal conversation/processing.

The Need for Solitude

Regardless, it’s important, at the end of the day, to keep in mind the introverted aspect of many men’s grief process:

“Many times the activity a man chooses (often this is not a conscious decision, but done instinctively) to contain his grief is not highly visible to those around him. This invisibility leads many to believe that the man is not grieving. This is simply not so.”

“Another important thing to note about men and grief is the tendency for men to withdraw when they are actively grieving. The purpose of the withdrawal is often not to avoid those close to them or to avoid the grief, but is related to a man’s desire to find some inner understanding and balance before moving the pain out into the open. Men tend to view grief as a burden and a problem, and they are steadfast in their desire to solve their own problem and not “dump” it on someone who has no responsibility for the grief.”

“It is probably good to honor a man’s need to withdraw to gain some balance. […] This does not mean that men shouldn’t talk about their grief. Talking about grief and connecting with one’s emotions in the process is healing for all people. It does mean that men will usually withdraw first and talk later.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 38, 137, 162-163

“The way I see it, relationships are two-sided, and sometimes it doesn’t make sense to do all the heavy lifting when the other isn’t in the mood. We all go through and deal with things differently, and, sometimes, you just need to let people do things their own way— as long as you’re still there when they need you. Giving someone space should never be the same as giving up on them.”

— The Amazing Digital Circus, Episode 6, Quote from Kinger

In Summation…

“If you want to connect with a man in his grief, keep in mind that he will often have an easier time connecting to his pain through activity, that he will have a tendency to withdraw initially, and that he will probably be less agile in his verbal processing of his pain.”

— “Swallowed by a Snake: The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing” by Thomas R. Golden, Pg 163

Honestly, we’re all just figuring it out, and a little curiosity about the next person goes a long way. Try to be kind to yourself, and each other. ❤️‍🩹

I’m hosting a reading challenge on The Storygraph called Good Grief: Exploration through Literature 🕊️. Feel free to check it out if you’re looking for other grief-related resources, and join if you would like to start your own grief reading journey:

Join Challenge

Sources