Why “Acceptance” Makes Me Cringe
I have a complicated relationship with the word “acceptance” when it comes to grief.
To be honest, sometimes just hearing the word makes me cringe – not because acceptance doesn’t play a role in grief, but because we have such a misunderstanding of what that means.
I blame pop culture, which continues to teach us that grief comes in five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. (Side note: The five stages were originally identified by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross for people who were dying, not for grief; once adapted for grief, they were often misconstrued to be linear, which was never the intention. In general, the stages are no longer considered to be the most helpful model for understanding grief, even though they persist culturally. In other words, it’s past time that we stop thinking about grief this way.)
Not only does our culture teach us that grief ends in acceptance, but it also sends us the message that acceptance means this: Do something to honor your loss (a memorial service, a releasing ceremony), feel your feelings (but not for too long), then accept the reality of your loss and find a way to move on – preferably in ways that temper your feelings of sadness and pain while you nurture gratitude and savor happy memories.
This version of acceptance is both unhealthy and untrue, but it’s the one that’s most often expected of grievers. This version of acceptance is also often what we expect of ourselves (often without even realizing it).
If this is not what acceptance looks like, then what does it look like to practice acceptance in grief?
As with every aspect of grief, there is no formula. Your answer to this question will be as unique as you and your loss. As you explore this question for yourself, I can tell you a little about what acceptance means to me.
To me, acceptance means accepting that grief is (and will always be) a part of my life, even if it will never change the fact that I wish my sister were still alive.
It means meeting myself in the moment and allowing whatever I’m feeling, whether that be anger, pain, confusion, contentment, excitement, or joy.
It means accepting that pain and loss are a part of the human experience, even if I wish that it weren’t so, and even though there are so many things that I will never understand.
It means allowing grief as my uninvited companion - not because I like it, but because I know that I have to allow and experience my pain in order to stay true to myself.
It means accepting that this is the life I’ve been given, even though it’s not the one I chose, and that my task is to find a way to live it as well as I can.
None of this acceptance spares me from my pain. None of this acceptance makes it okay that my sister died from brain cancer at 40, or that my stepbrother died from addiction when he was 20, or that my stepmother lost her life to lung cancer at age 59.
None of this acceptance means that each time I look at pictures I smile, or that gratitude has replaced my sadness, or that I’ve fully made peace with my losses. I haven’t, and I don’t know that I ever will. I don’t know that acceptance and peace mean the same thing to me.
But if acceptance means allowing, then that is a type of acceptance that I can practice. Allowing my grief, my pain, and even my joy. Allowing life to unfold even if it’s not the life I planned, only because I recognize that sometimes the script is not mine to write.
What comes up for you when you hear the word acceptance, and what might acceptance in grief mean to you?
