Mourning doesn’t only happen when we lose someone. Mourning exists on a spectrum, in different sizes, shapes, intensities, durations, and forms:
Mourning is a certain kind of pain, a contraction in the body.
There are intense forms, where it feels like our heart is being ripped apart; we can’t breathe, or we feel like we won’t survive the immensity of the pain. These can take weeks, months, or even a lifetime to digest…
And there are the tiny contractions, a small moment of “ouch” in everyday life, a quiet “ouch.”: when we get a fine, a remark from a colleague, or when we need listening and the other person moves into expression.
Each of these small moments can turn into conflict, or into connection.
Today’s Newsletter is written by Connecting2life trainer Daisy Delgado. This story is about a small (but meaningful) mourning, a moment of “Ouch” with her daughter:
Mourning as a Gateway to Connection
by Daisy Delgado
Do you recognize that moment when reality doesn’t match what you imagined?
We all move between reality and imagination, often without noticing it.
We imagine how something will go… and when reality doesn’t match, something inside us reacts.
In that gap, there is often a small, tender (or huge) “ouch.”
And how we meet that “ouch” can change everything. This story is about such a moment with my daughter:
My 13-year-old daughter wanted to spend the whole day together, a rare occasion.
The past years have moved faster than I could process. From having a little girl who wanted to do everything together… to a teenager who mostly enjoys spending time with her friends.
So this day was a gift.
I was really looking forward to being close to her again. To connect.
We are in a busy clothing store. She is standing in front of a mirror, trying on a bright pink jacket. I look at her, we talk, I listen.
“Oohh I like it so much, it’s such a beautiful colour,” she says
“Yes, I love it too,” I say.
“It fits these jeans, it’s perfect for the summer…”. Her eyes begin to twinkle as she imagines herself wearing it to school.
Then suddenly she says: “Ok, I want it!”.
She looks at me as if expecting me to pay.
“Ooh, you’re going to buy it with your own money, right?” I say.
The light drains from her face. For a split second, I see tears welling up… and then:
“I hate you.”
I’m shocked, confused. I didn’t expect it. My mind races, trying to make sense of it… I also feel compassion..
I realize that all this time, she thought I was going to buy the jacket for her. She had already imagined herself wearing it to school tomorrow.
And with her friend there, I can imagine there might also be some embarrassment.
She pulls off the jacket, shoves it into my hands, and walks away with her friend.
I stand there, holding a bright pink jacket, a quiet buzz in my head.
What just happened?
My heart sinks and a heaviness washes over me. I was so looking forward to spending time with her and now it’s over ?!
I slow down and welcome the pain. I so much like to spend time with her and connect… I so like when there is a flow of connection between us…. I so much long for togetherness and gentleness…
“Ouch”
After a moment, I go looking for her. Two stores away, I find her. I say:
“Lieffie… I didn’t know you thought I was going to buy it. I can imagine you feel disappointed… especially because I was so enthusiastic too.”
Her anger is still there, holding back tears: “Yes! That’s so mean, you made me believe I would get it…”
“Oohh lieffie… you already imagined yourself with it… and now it’s not there…”
She can’t hold back her tears anymore: “Yes… I like it so much… it was perfect…”
My heart expands. I get it… I remember what it’s like not to get what feels so important for my sense of beauty, belonging, being seen…
We stay there for a moment with her sadness- not too long, as she doesn’t like to cry (specially not in public).
When things settle, I gently move to share my side:
That I wish we had more clarity, so she doesn’t feel disappointed like this. That I assumed she would use her own money, since we had spoken about it earlier. I really want to do my best to avoid that.
She heard me. I could see her face soften.
“Oke… yes…”
I also tell her that “I hate you” was painful for me to hear. I like to be treated with gentleness.
“Yeah…”
I can sense she hears me. And also that she is ready to move on.
So I leave it there. Enough dialogue for today.
And then… something shifts.
We start having fun again.
Trying on clothes. Eating something delicious. Laughing.
All the things I had imagined at the beginning of the day.
Sometimes imagination becomes reality in the most fun and pleasant way.
I enjoy and take in those moments of connection.
At the end of the day, I send her a message:
“Sleep well sweetie, I love you so much, and I really enjoyed our time together.”
She replies:
“Sleep well, I love you too, and I’m really sorry that I acted so angrily this afternoon.”
My heart expands.
I love her.
What I’m learning:
Moments like this happen all the time. I imagine how something will go. How someone will respond. How life will feel… And then reality meets me differently.
That’s where the “ouch” lives.
Mourning is the time needed to move from imagination land, to meet life/reality as it actually is.
In this story, we both experienced that movement- from what we hoped for, to what was actually happening.
When I don’t pause for that moment, when I skip over the disappointment, the sadness, the shock, something else often takes over: Anger. Withdrawal. Blame.
But when I allow the “ouch”, the Mourning… even briefly… something softens.
And from there, connection becomes possible again.
This moment could have gone so differently… A small “ouch” could have turned into distance, conflict, or lingering anger and hurt.
Instead, by pausing… by staying with what was alive in me… and by meeting her with empathy, something opened.
Maybe every moment of pain carries a small invitation: To pause. To feel. To hear its message.
And when we do… we might find our way back: to ourselves, and to each other.
Daisy