“Have you seen how fast that beaver dam is growing?”, he said.

I stopped walking along the path by the creek to look in the direction the man had pointed out.

When I said I hadn’t noticed the dam before, he told me it had only been there for two weeks.

“Every day it’s bigger,” he said.

Water flowing downstream was starting to back up. I wondered how long it would be before it either diverted to and flooded another low lying area, or breached the dam. It couldn’t keep backing up without some sort of release.

This thought stayed with me as I continued my walk. The analogy to my grief journey was not lost on me.

People ask me how I’m doing and I paste on a smile and say, “fine.” I hold back my tears.

I’m driving and something on the radio triggers a memory. I fight back my tears as they aren’t compatible with driving safely.

I’m talking with a family member and my eyes well up. I do my best not to cry. They are dealing with their own grief and don’t need mine compounding it.

All the while, my grief is suppressed. I tell myself that tears are a sign of weakness, something I need to apologize for. They make others feel uncomfortable, so I don’t release them. Even the overflows I can’t stop are carefully controlled.

The pressure builds. The tears will not be denied. Alone in my room, I feel the dam being breached. My carefully structured composure collapses, bringing a flood of waterworks. I give in and let it run its course.

Afterwards, I realize how much better I feel. The pressure that had been building in me has been released. I discover that tears are not a sign of weakness. They are a language of their own, expressing feelings I have no words for. They are essential to my healing.