Grief and Rage: The Burdens of a Storyteller
The relentless ability to feel is both a curse and a gift for storytellers. Lately, I'm wondering if I can continue to be a lightning rod for emotions. Here’s what I’ve discovered.
It was a cool, somewhat overcast Spring day in Virginia Beach. The weather wasn’t cooperating, so my friend Shari and I decided to take our six kids (ranging from three to nine) on a dolphin-watching cruise. My two sons and one of her daughters were at the front of the boat, while Shari and I were on a bench about 10 feet away with the littlest two. Her son thought it all stupid so he was inside the cabin. The sea was calm, until it wasn’t. A giant wave crashed down on the front of the boat. It knocked us from the bench, and I struggled in the foamy surf. My drenched jeans and sweatshirt were anchoring me to the ground. I had a little girl in my grasp and trying to see where our three kids were, but the salt was stinging my eyes. Panic and water - I couldn’t get my breath. Another wave knocked me down again. And again I struggled.
Fortunately, that story ended with all of us uninjured (the electronics not so much). That day on the water, caught in those relentless waves, left me gasping for breath, desperately trying to regain my balance. It was a literal battle to get upright. Lately, life’s storms have been less visible, yet equally overwhelming. In the aftermath of personal loss and political turmoil, I find myself again struggling to breathe, surrounded by waves of grief and rage.
The writer community is in agony right now. They are emotional lightning rods, absorbing every strike of pain, joy, and despair. We channel the world’s stories, but sometimes the weight of those stories becomes too much to bear. This isn’t just a professional hazard—it’s personal.
Oh, it can be poignant like when I was reliving the moments of Dad being here in New Jersey and interacting with my father-in-law. But it can also mean dredging up feelings I haven’t endured in years. When I write in the first person - it means sharing them. When I switch to writing in the third - I am still summoning bygone emotions – but at least I can frame them as empathy for someone else.
Recently, I found myself surrounded by others who were grappling with their own losses—some personal, some societal. The November election had unleashed a torrent of fear and despair among my fellow writers, amplifying the sense that we are all drowning in a sea of anguish.
They are terrified by the proclamations of the winners of the recent election to cause “temporary hardships.”1 “Hardships” is such a cold, hand-wavy word to describe separating children from their parents, stripping away healthcare rights, and rolling back protections for the most vulnerable. As the storytellers around me can attest, the scars from these so-called 'temporary hardships' will be anything but temporary.
There are those who chortle at these draconian policies - because they are monsters, while there are others who think the proclamations are mere exaggerations - because they have selective empathy. It reminded me of a time as a kid when I was watching television with my parents - some war movie or something. One of the characters had to have his leg amputated without anesthesia - and Dad dramatically flinched and moaned throughout the entire gut-wrenching scene. Mom and I probably did too - but Dad’s theatrics grabbed our attention. However on a different night, when a woman went through childbirth without anesthesia, Dad was placidly ambivalent. Mom picked up on that really quickly.
“Sure, someone getting his leg cut off and you can feel it, but some poor woman giving birth, and you just sit there.”
Dad certainly felt the sting of her words, and was completely confused by her ire.
I feel like that scene of selective empathy is a metaphor playing out daily. If a person can associate with the pain - they suffer it. If not, they are indifferent. Overwhelmed by listening to the anguish of writers, I am not sure what I feel.
The week before the election, I participated in a retreat where several writers shared book projects. The theme of several were around overcoming childhood scars and traumas. Some of the wounds were fresh - some decades old. As storytellers, their innate ability to feel, not only their own feelings but those of others as well, makes their stories gripping - so you, the reader, feel it too.
Storytellers are vessels for the world’s emotions. What happens when this vessel over flows? As they shared their stories, I felt as if my lungs would burst; their grief took the oxygen from the room. I was back on the boat, gasping for breath.
The following week was the election. Anguish came to the fore again as a different writer community came together to share the tremendous grief that had been unleashed by the results. As I listened to each reaction, some with tears, some with fears, I instead felt murderous. Filled with fury and feeling powerless, I wanted to hurt the monsters who wanted to perpetrate suffering. Wanting to say something provocative and uplifting to these woman I could only manage profanities. I cursed because I didn’t want to feel any more.
Was I somehow a monster for not being able to cry? Instead I wanted to lash out at the world. The anger was visceral, all-consuming. I wasn’t sure where to direct it—at the people responsible for this chaos or at myself for not breaking down like everyone else.
Listening to these stories made me reflect on my own grief process.
My friend Shari was killed in a horrific car crash a couple weeks ago — a week before the writer retreat. And it knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t cry — I just gasped. My chest and stomach ached. Then I went into Mom mode — I needed to be there for her kids who are now 22-28. I guess that was a form of denial. I saw the indescribable remnants of a car that had flipped three or four times, hit a pole, before bursting into flames. And I screamed in horror and sadness. I was devastated that she might have suffered. Every night I woke from a different version of the crash - with her being conscious throughout it. Then I found out that since her move to rural Michigan last spring, she had been indulging in new habit: “blowing off steam” by driving over 120 miles an hour. I was furious. Furious that she did it to herself, to me, to her kids.
The anger finally dissipated. I don’t know what I am left with now; our friendship feels like a mirage. Although I realize I now have a stronger bond with her children - because we collectively share the pain and confusion.
In my struggle to understand my lack of tears, I found myself turning to the words of musician and author Nick Cave. No stranger to tragedy, he lost two sons seven years apart. He described grief as having changed him at the atomic level.
Suddenly we inhabit a different body. I meant that quite literally. I changed from one person to another.
Cave’s words struck me. I was still grieving Shari’s death. Then there was the writer’s workshop and then the election. I am supersaturated with grief, weighed down by feelings I still don’t know how to fully process.
My text chimes. Shari’s kids are coming for dessert on Thanksgiving. The tears come - from happiness.
I do know I’ve changed, down to the atomic level, as Cave said. But given the choice, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This relentless ability to feel, to hurt, to rage, is both a curse and a gift. Maybe, just maybe, storytelling is the vessel that transforms pain into purpose. We can find solace in shared pain and weave it into something that can heal. And perhaps, in doing so, we can help others feel a little less alone in their own darkness.
I am so very grateful to my friend Ann Rosen, photographer, educator - and dancer! She read this piece and said I have the perfect image for it. It is Annie — it is absolutely perfect. And I am so honored to be able to use it to illustrate grief. Ann’s Being Seen project is a visual testimony for understanding the way our society oppresses women, especially those of a lower economic class. It is currently part of the Dwelling Hope exhibition, SMI Leach Gallery, Montclair, NJ. It was part of a quartet that won best in show
Wow, Diane, thank you for sharing that post. I'm so sorry I missed it the first time around. Sometimes, though, the context has to be right to appreciate something truly.
Yes, as Jill said in a comment below, grief packs a wallop. The terrifying experience with your kids sets the stage. 🥺
Grief packs a wallop. The opening scene captures the way it must have felt when you got the news about Shari: swept under water and struggling to breathe. The waves of emotion surging in the wake of all the bad news. Yes, writers can be lightning rods, but lightning rods need grounding to work effectively. You're sea legs are sturdy.