Two 
days turned into three, and they were truly awful. Let me explain.
In a rite of passage I could have lived without, I had a colonoscopy on Monday—and then, because one wasn’t enough fun, I had another on Tuesday. The culprit? An improper bowel prep that didn’t allow the doctor to fully visualize the interior walls of my colon. So, we extended the fun, and thankfully, the second attempt yesterday was successful. Still, there’s nothing quite like being on a specific low-carb diet and then taking enough laxatives to keep 50 people running to the bathroom. The weirdest part was teetering on the edge of hypoglycemia for days. My diet is not designed for a clear-liquid option except immediately post-op, so I spent most of the weekend lying around doing nothing—which, I must admit, I excel at.
The upside of low-energy days is that you have time to think. I finished yesterday’s blog and did some brainstorming for other persistent themes in my day-to-day life. Which brings me to today’s topic: tradition.
We’re a society steeped in tradition. Many of the sayings your great-great-grandmother used still echo in your vocabulary today. My mother used words like “cattywampus” for “diagonal,” or “leaning off toward the Joneses” when something was tilted. Talking to my sister recently, I realized how a single “mom phrase” can transport me back to her. I challenge you—take inventory of the phrases your parents used regularly, and you’ll be surprised how much of their language you carry forward.
One tradition in particular has been a thorn in my grieving process: the old “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
From the start, this tradition hindered my grief. In the weeks after my husband’s death, I filtered what I said, afraid to shatter anyone’s memory of him. It took me weeks to even say publicly that he died by suicide. I told myself I was protecting his family and anyone who had a different remembrance of him. In reality, I gave everyone else space to grieve while denying myself the same. That stifled grief snowballed into withdrawal and unhealthy coping—patterns I’ve been untangling for over two years.
Even now, when I share raw emotion, I find myself softening the blow: “There were happy times,” “It wasn’t all bad.” But more and more, I realize that cushioning the truth serves no one—it puts an artificial limit on grief. If the good outweighs the bad, that’s one thing. But if the bad loomed large, ignoring it for the sake of tradition is like pouring concrete over a festering wound.
I also learned that the “don’t speak ill” tradition is rooted in the belief that it’s unfair to say things about someone who can’t defend themselves. Fair enough—but it’s also unfair to the living to muzzle their truth. Grief is messy, and withholding parts of the truth only makes it messier.
The truth is, my marriage was already ending. I was preparing for a life beyond it—but not in the way it actually ended. No one can predict how grief will unfold, even with some preparation. And yet, I’ve had to carry the weight of his curated narratives about others—what he said one thing to their face and another behind closed doors. That hypocrisy became a mirror for my own silences.
We need to talk about the bad stuff. Not to tarnish someone’s name, but to tell the truth as we lived it. If someone doesn’t like how another person processes grief, they can keep it to themselves. Emotional gatekeeping only deepens the wound.
Sometimes people step back from the grieving because they don’t know what to say, or it’s just too much. That’s okay—distance can be a form of self-preservation. But don’t tell someone how to grieve. As my therapist says, you can only do the best you can with what’s in front of you.
The whole process is a learning curve, and the next loss may send you on a completely different path. I’ve learned that over and over with the multiple deaths in my family. I’ve also learned that traditions aren’t sacred if they’re hurting you. This is one I’m breaking.
As always—be good to your dogs and to your mom. You only have a finite time with them.