Why it’s sometimes so hard to find the gifts

Why It's Sometimes So Hard to See the Gifts

I don’t know about you, but I’ve spent a large part of my life — and I mean a very large part — with a rather loud voice in my head.

As I write this, I realise that probably makes me sound a little odd. And for a long time, I thought I was odd, so much so I didn’t tell anyone about it for years. It wasn’t anything new, it had always been there, but over the last few years it had become really, really loud.

It’s only since I’ve been working with a brilliant therapist called Alice that I’ve really accepted there isn’t anything odd about this voice at all.

These voices live in all of us. Sometimes we’re aware of them; other times they’re so deeply embedded that we’ve never even questioned that they’re there.

Can’t you see? The voice would ask.

Can’t you see?

Round and round it would go.

There’s a name for these thought loops, I’ve discovered. and it’s called rumination. Alice, and the work of other brilliant therapists such as Dr Kristin Neff through her book Fierce Self-Compassion, helped me understand that rumination can often be caused by a trapped or unseen emotion underneath.

I suspected Alice always knew what that emotion was. But the work in therapy, I get, is for me to discover it myself.

But I wasn’t going to lie. I was baffled. I’d even ask the voice? What are you? Who are you?

Can’t you see? It would reply.

The thing is, I’d always been able to have open conversations with my dad. I could tell him absolutely anything and he’d never judge me – or at least if he did, he’d never show it. I’m sure, looking back, he’d flinch a little at some of the things I told him, but to my untrained, non-parental eye, I didn’t see a thing.

Having a dad like him made me feel loved. I felt warm, not judged, safe, understood and seen. It wasn’t just me who felt like that when we were with him. I know from his friends, my friends and many others who were lucky enough to meet him, that he made people feel loved, warm and seen.

“Did you try your best?” He’d ask. “That’s all you can do." 

He’d somehow on your most miserable of days make you feel you were capable of conquering the world. Not a lecture, just a nudge,  an understanding, a believing, a gentle guide.

“Barkers bounce back,” he’d say and off I’d go again.

He died more than eight years ago, and I still feel this love from him every day. Only, for a long time, it’s been accompanied by a dragging, gnawing ache. I’ve never met anyone quite like him in the world. He was also my one and only dad and now he’s no longer here.

Can’t you see? The voice would say, can’t you see?

And then, one night, I got it.

It’s funny how it can take us years to see what perhaps the outside world can spot straight away. The emotion underneath it all, the one that sat trapped was, of course, grief.

I miss my dad. I miss the conversations. I miss how I felt when I was with him. My days with my sons are filled with countless moments when I think - if only he was here. 

If only they could get to feel how he made people feel, I want them to have that gift too. When I watch my eldest son play football, even on the sunniest and brightest of days, the ache sits gnawing away. If only my dad, his granddad was here. What would he say?

“How can I make it go away?” I asked Alice in one of our sessions.

“Why would you want it to go away?” she replied.

“Because it hurts of course,” I said. “It really, really hurts.”

“But you felt the feeling of unconditional, wonderful love. Not everyone gets to feel that.” She replied.

Yes, I knew this. But wasn’t Alice missing the point? It was my dad who created that feeling and he’s not here anymore.

Couldn’t she see?

“The feeling lives in you,” Alice said. “Your feelings always belonged to you, even when your dad was here, we are the ones who feel the feeling. You had the experience and thanks to your dad, you know how it feels. You know it’s possible to feel completely understood. So, if it’s possible for you to feel it, can you create that feeling again?”

Now, I could end this here, it is after all grief – and even though we may not have met, I’m pretty sure you’ve felt it in your life too. 

But if it ends here, I know now, it’s me who is missing the point. I’m missing the real gift my dad gave me- to know what true love feels like, to feel loved and seen. 

If I think about it, how he did it, how he didn’t judge, how he saw the best in people, encouraged and lived from his heart – I can at least try to pass these lessons on to his grandsons – the gift is still here.

So, the gnawing ache I was feeling wasn’t telling me what was wrong with my life. It was telling me what had been right.

How will I pass it on? I don’t know. There was only ever one of him. But then again, there is only one of you and me – and that, in itself is another wonderful gift we share. I know I won’t always get it right, but I’ll do my best. And on the days I don’t I’ll know 'Barkers bounce back' and I’ll give it another go.

Learning this, hasn’t brought my dad back into my world, but I understand that gnawing is my love for him. Love hurts and gnaws, yes – but would I be without it? 

Never. 

Since I’ve discovered, this the sunshine feels a little brighter again and the gnawing ache has softened. I’d never dream of pretending to understand football to my son, but I can watch him and be filled with my own love as I see him try his best.

And the best part of all is now when that voice asks:

“Can’t you see? Can’t you see?’

I can reply to it with confidence. 

“Yes,” I tell it, “I really can.”