The Willow
The Willow
I thought I was taking down a tree. I didn't realise I was opening the door to grief.
I had always wanted a willow tree. As long as I can remember, they spoke to me in some way. I couldn't really explain it, but there was something about them that drew me in. Then the day finally came when I was going to have one of my own. She was beautiful.
But time passed, and there was so much worry about the damage she could cause to the very close neighbours. Eventually, the decision was made that she had to come down.
I couldn't stop crying in the weeks before it happened. I was heartbroken, with a grief like nothing I had ever felt before, and I couldn't understand why I was so affected. Why was I feeling this way about a tree?
People kept saying, "It's only a tree."
But it didn't feel like that to me.
I began to realise that she had opened a door to all the grief I had stored away over the years. I hadn't cried for many, many years. I had become hardened. I used to laugh at people crying at films because I could never understand it. I couldn't understand how something on a screen could make someone cry. I actually thought I was broken because the tears just never came.
Then they came.
You see, my grief had been halted, or paused, or pushed down — however you want to describe it. When I was pregnant with my beautiful daughter, my dad died. I was told, "Look after yourself. Don't get too upset. Think of the baby." And I did.
At my dad's funeral, the tears were uncontrollable, but I had to make them stop. After the funeral, I somehow managed to hide the tears and enjoy my pregnancy.
Then came more news. My ex-husband was blown up and seriously injured in Iraq. More grief, but again there was a need to carry on. Later, a colleague died in Iraq, and I attended one of the most emotional military funerals I have ever experienced. The tears wouldn't stop that day, but somehow I still had to make them stop.
Life went on. I had a beautiful baby girl. She was everything, and I was so happy. Life continued, but there was always a darkness somewhere underneath it all, just hiding in the depths.
Then grief came back into my home.
My support, my gorgeous shepherd, was put to sleep after fourteen special years. The pain was intolerable, and the tears were unstoppable once more. I drank to numb the pain and vowed never to cry like that again.
I thought I had managed it. I thought I had found a way to keep everything contained.
Until the tree.
Until the willow.
Seventeen years later, she became the doorway through which I finally began the grieving process that had been paused for so long. That was my time. The tears kept coming, and this time I gave them space. I allowed myself to be sober and present as all the pain washed over me.
I later found out that the weeping willow is a symbol of grief and sorrow. Willows have been used around gravestones and memorials to represent deep loss and eternal remembrance. When I discovered that, it felt strangely fitting. My willow had been like a living vault for the feelings I had carried inside me for years.
When she came down, my armour came down with her.
My tree surgeon was incredibly thoughtful and kind. He understood what the tree meant to me and respected both the tree and my feelings and wishes throughout the process. I didn't have photographs of what happened. I didn't need them. I was there, and I felt every part of it.
The first cut was the hardest. The branch felt like my own limb being severed from me, and as it dropped, so did my heart. There was suddenly a huge hole where she had once stood.
But behind it was beautiful blue sky and light that I had never seen before.
I think about this a lot in my work with clients. So many people say to me, "I shouldn't be sad," or "I can't believe I'm crying," or "It was so many years ago."
But grief can wait patiently in the landscapes of our lives. Sometimes it is there, quietly waiting, until something uproots it and brings it back to the surface for us to look at once more.
I don't believe time is necessarily a healer. I think sometimes we simply get better at functioning in a way that keeps things hidden. We learn how to carry on. We learn how to put things away. We learn how to survive around the things that hurt.
But grief does not have an expiry date.
It is not linear, and your grief is your grief. It doesn't have to look like anybody else's. It isn't silly or stupid, and you don't have to justify why something has brought the feelings back.
I will always be grateful for my tree.
One more willow has now been planted in a special place, and I have also become the guardian of a beautiful ancient ash tree. In many cultures, the ash is known as the tree of life and represents stability, strength and endurance.
She stands tall, with her leaves and branches reaching towards the sky. I feel safe underneath her large canopy. I sit near her and sometimes touch her trunk to ground myself. She brings me a sense of strength, wisdom and knowledge, but perhaps what she really reminds me of is that the strength, wisdom and knowledge I am looking for are already inside me.
My willow taught me something about grief. My ash is teaching me something about roots.
The season that followed the willow was a season of uprooting old pain and experiencing new endings. I ended a long-term relationship and sold what I thought was going to be my forever home. I had spent years building that life and believing it was where I would stay.
I guess it was never going to be that.
Now I am in my recovery house. A new season of stability. A place where I am growing new roots.
When I look at my ash tree, I think about everything she represents. She doesn't need to rush. She doesn't need to prove anything. She simply stands there, rooted and strong, reaching upwards.
And perhaps that is something I am learning to do too.
I used to think that when we experienced grief, we needed to get through it, get over it and move on. I don't think that anymore. Sometimes we need to give it space. Sometimes it needs somewhere safe to surface. Sometimes something unexpected — even a tree — can open a door that we didn't know was there.
So when sadness hits, all I ask is that you give it some space.
Don't tell yourself it's silly. Don't tell yourself you shouldn't still be affected because something happened years ago. Don't compare your grief with somebody else's.
Grief is a process, and it isn't linear.
Your grief is your grief.
And perhaps, sometimes, the things we think are breaking us are actually creating space for us to see what has been hidden there all along.
if this story connects with something that you are carrying, you don't have to hold it alone. Therapy can offer a safe space to explore grief, change, relationships and the parts of ourselves that we have had to put away in order to keep going.
The inner wild therapist offers face to afce, online and walk and talk therapy around Richmond and darlington.