I’m Relearning How to Embrace Tears, Sadness, and Loneliness

Sunrise coffee on the Halifax waterfront. I never feel lonely in the morning, just beautiful solitude.

The other day I was emptying a box of knick-knacks that I’d brought back to Halifax from my apartment in Toronto.

In that box were a number of notes that I’ve kept from family & friends. A combination of birthday and thank you notes from friends who’d crashed in my spare room.

As I leaned them up against the window in front of my desk, I began to tear up. It had been a long few weeks and these tokens of the love in my life meant a lot in that moment. That same night, I sat by myself and watched the season final of Shogun (so good), and I shed a few tears during a sad scene.

I’ve often said that I think tears of joy are a sign of a healthy mind and soul–and I maintain that–but lately I’m thinking a lot about how sad tears are healthy and necessary as well.

It’s not as though one is good and the other is bad. They’re both just feelings, fully and honestly felt.

I’ve had a few recent experiences that have allowed me to see, very clearly, the extent to which I’ve been numbing myself to some difficult feelings with distractions and addictions. For at least the last year, I’ve refused to let myself fully experience feelings of sadness or loneliness. I’ve made sure to book my weekends full of plans, if my friends were busy I might find a date, and if that didn’t work I’d lean on screens or nicotine. Even when I had the presence of mind to know I needed a night in, I’d stuff my face with snacks all night try to scratch the itch and feel anything but my actual feelings.

Now, I’m trying to lean into sadness and loneliness when they come up. I’m trying to feel them fully, without judgement, and to explore them so I can understand them. So I can be honest with myself about where they’re coming from and what I can do about them.

Sitting with these feelings is a bit like getting into an ice bath. It’s slightly uncomfortable at first, then the discomfort intensifies until it starts to feel unbearably painful, to the point that you’d do almost anything to stop feeling that way. But, if you stay calm, focus on your breathe, and sit with the sensation, you realize that it won’t kill you like your nervous system seemed to think it might. And on the other side, you feel a refreshing sense of alertness, presence, and clarity. You’re glad you didn’t pull away.

Tears, for me, seem to be a great marker for my capacity to feel. When I’m truly in tune with myself, and when I’m living with proper awareness, I find myself tearing up at sunrises, books & movies, stories people tell me about their life, or the sound of birds chirping. In these moments, I’m present enough to acknowledge and appreciate the immense beauty and craziness that is being alive as a human.

In thinking about this ‘capacity to feel’, I’m grateful for my friend Jeremie, who was one of my first friends and role models in my life who taught me that it was okay, that it was beautiful, that it was cool to feel and to be vulnerable. He’s done this for a lot of people in his community and around the world. I remember going to see some music with him a several years ago, looking over to see him wiping tears from his eyes, and being in awe of the way he appreciates and experiences art (and life).

I’m so glad I have friends who inspire me to feel, and who allow me plenty of space to feel sad, angry, or anxious, without judgement.

Yesterday my eyes welled up from the wind as I biked downhill to my office early in the morning.

I laughed so hard I cried as my childhood friend, Eric, told stupid jokes in our bunk room at 2am on Stefan’s bachelor party.

I cried at Jeremie’s story of finding out, as a child, that he had cystic fibrosis in his newest podcast.

I want to go inward again. To feel lonely. To feel sad.

I want to feel it all, and to see where that takes me.