jason mraz knows what's up.

Grief [from multiple sources]: the reaction to loss, as opposed to bereavement (the state of loss); anguish over affliction or loss; a multifaceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something to which a bond has been formed. 

Change begets loss.

I, as a terminal optimist, cringe a little at how dreary that statement sounds.

But it's true: there's an element of loss in every major life change.

You sell a house, and don't anticipate the jarring, off-kilter state that follows. Or you move across the country to chase a job opportunity, and, once there, you can't put your finger on why you're so tired and just sad. Or you get married, and reprimand yourself sharply for tiny backward glances at singleness. Or you have a baby, and nothing about the experience matches your expectation. Or you end a relationship, a decision which, in itself, demands different levels of self-reflection.

Or.

A housefire destroys nearly everything you own. Your mother suddenly passes away. Your beautiful baby is born with problems you didn't anticipate. Your husband is diagnosed with cancer. You're mugged at knifepoint, or raped, or stalked.

And maybe, on the outside, eventually, everything looks as though it's worked out. After a year of chemo and radiation, your husband is now in remission. You were able to save a box of precious family mementos from your charred basement, and insurance will cover all your financial losses. Maybe you adapt quickly to parenting a special-needs child, or maybe you're willing yourself to go through the motions, praying that your efforts begin to feel genuine - fake it 'til you make it. Maybe your mugger is caught quickly, your purse is returned, your rapist is brought to swift justice, your stalker moves on without physically harming you. Maybe you smile over at your brand-new spouse and guiltily squelch the longing you feel for the days when you could stretch out to all four corners of your own bed.

And maybe, it looks like you should be okay. Happy. But maybe, you're not.

And maybe, none of it looks right to the people around you.

Her husband is doing so well; why is she still so touchy? Because I know nobody lives forever, but I never had to brush so closely against what it would be like to be without him. Because I feel like I can't ever be as carefree and secure in our relationship as I was before I had to envision losing him. How can I ever be the same kind of "okay" I was before I was so terrified of the heartbreak in my future? 

He has an awesome job; why isn't he happy? Because I miss my family; because I never knew what it was like to be physically separated from them. Because I'm afraid I made the wrong decision. Because I'm afraid this was the right decision, but I don't know how to feel so alone. Because nothing feel as easy as it did when I was surrounded by the people who have known me since I was a baby. 

They made a killing on that house sale; I would be thrilled! But I tiled the kitchen floor myself; my husband and I conceived our babies in that bedroom; our girls ripped the ceiling fan out of the guest bedroom ceiling in 1996, and we never did patch up the hole correctly; the hallway walls still bear the dings and scratches from my mother's wheelchair. The love of, and for, my family breathes in those walls, and nobody will ever sit inside them and know it like I do. 

Why isn't she excited to be a mother? She has such a beautiful baby! But I never expected it be like this. I was bonded to my ideas for my future; my heart was wrapped around my plans, but the reality I'm facing looks nothing like the plans I had every right to make. Oh my god, how do I do this? What is this? I'm so exhausted. I'm so in shock. I'm so afraid. 

S/he's so lucky to be alive,and people have been through worse things; why isn't s/he happy? Because I am utterly heartbroken at the way the things I saw have changed my priorities from "outreach" to "preserve" against my will. Because the person I was before is dead. Because the world I knew before is gone. Because, when I'm still, I have no idea what to do with my hands. There's no way back, only forward, and I only know who I was, not who I am now. 

When your life undergoes a change, your perspective is no longer what it was before the change occurred. An interpretation of this idea is often referred to, in Christian-speak, as the age of accountability or the age of awareness - when a child becomes aware of the world on an adult level and, therefore, sheds his/her childhood and moves into adulthood (I'm omitting any discussion of sin or right/wrongdoing, for the purposes of this particular train of thought). Once you're aware of something - once your life has, for whatever reason, been changed - you can never go back to being a person who didn't know what it was like to move through that change.

And sometimes - not always, but sometimes - as you try to move forward within a new reality, the ties of your previous experience do not gel whatsoever with the new life in front of you. The shock numbs you; the rage sears your skin; these ties to your previous experience stand upright in front of you and demand that you acknowledge their absence before you proceed without them.

Whether the change you're facing "should" be a joyful one, or whether it's a somber or tragic affair:

Everything will not be perfect.

But everything will be fine.

Hearts will hold.

It's true, whether we believe it or not.