Going Back to Work — When the Rest of the World Thinks You're Ready in Month Three
By month three, something strange starts to happen.
The world decides you're coming back.
Not because you said you were ready. Not because you woke up one morning and suddenly felt like yourself again. Not because grief packed its bags and politely left.
Enough time has passed.
Apparently.
Somewhere along the way, anxiety had crept into my grief. The world suddenly felt less predictable than it used to. I had learned, in the most brutal way possible, that terrible things can happen on perfectly ordinary days.
So no, I didn't particularly want to venture out into it.
But the world wanted a piece of me again.
And I wasn't ready to give it.
Going Back to Work
Eventually, you have to go back to work.
Bills still arrive when someone dies.
The mortgage doesn't care that you're grieving. Neither does the hydro company. Groceries still cost money. Life has this remarkably cruel ability to remain practical while yours has completely fallen apart.
So you go back.
Everyone talks about a "gradual return to work."
We'll ease you back in.
We'll take it slowly.
We'll support you.
And I remember thinking: What does that actually mean?
Because work is still work.
The emails are still there.
The meetings are still there.
The clients are still there.
The deadlines are still there.
And perhaps most importantly, the people are still the people.
They have been covering your work while you've been gone. They have their own jobs and their own responsibilities, and understandably, they're ready for you to come back and pick up what you left behind.
Except the person coming back isn't quite the person who left. This is what they don’t understand. I am Leslie-Ann, v 2.0, and that is not necessarily an upgrade at this time.
That's the part nobody seems prepared for either.
Physically, you're sitting at your desk.
Your computer is on.
You're dressed.
You're answering emails.
Look at you.
You're back.
Except you're not.
A huge part of your brain is somewhere else.
Grief takes up an extraordinary amount of mental space. Things that used to be automatic suddenly require effort. Concentrating is harder. Remembering things is harder. Making decisions is harder.
Someone can explain something to you and five minutes later you realize you didn't absorb a word of it.
You read the same email three times.
You walk into a room and forget why you're there.
You stare at your screen.
And then you remember.
He's dead.
Again.
Because somehow your brain has to keep learning that fact over and over.
And you're supposed to care about the email marked URGENT.
It’s exhausting!
But You Look Fine
This is also around the time when people start seeing the outside version of you and assuming it matches the inside.
You showered.
You did your hair.
You drove to work.
You forced a laugh at something someone said.
You participated in a meeting.
Therefore:
You're doing better.
Maybe you are doing better.
But "better" is a dangerous word in grief because people often hear it as better now.
Fixed.
Recovered.
Back to normal.
Grief doesn't work like that.
Being able to function is not the same thing as being okay.
Being able to sit at a desk doesn't mean you're cognitively ready to perform at the level you did before.
Laughing doesn't mean you aren't devastated.
And showing up doesn't mean you've stopped grieving.
Sometimes showing up is literally all you've got.
Shouldn't You Be Over It By Now?
Nobody necessarily says those exact words. (Well except somebody did, I was asked “Oh I thought that was all over now?”)
At least, not at first.
But you start to feel them.
It's been a month.
It's been two months.
It's been three months.
People stop asking how you're doing quite as often.
The casseroles have stopped arriving. The sympathy cards have slowed down. Everyone else's life has returned to normal.
Yours hasn't.
But there seems to be this invisible timeline hanging over grief.
Surely you're ready to take that client now.
Surely you can handle this project.
Surely things have settled down.
Isn't everything wrapped up neatly and tied with a little red bow?, I thought that would was all over now!!!
No.
It isn't.
Death doesn't come with a project completion date.
There isn't a checklist where you notify the government, deal with the bank, sort out the paperwork, return to work and then click:
GRIEF — COMPLETE.
The administrative pieces might eventually get handled.
The emotional pieces don't work that way.
No, I Don't Want to Go for Drinks
Then there is the social part of returning to work.
"Come out with us."
"No, thank you."
"Come on. It'll be good for you."
No.
Thank you.
I have spent the entire day holding myself together.
I have answered your emails.
I have attended your meetings.
I have smiled when I was supposed to smile.
I have made small talk.
I have tried to remember things my brain currently refuses to retain.
And now you want another piece of me?
I don't have one left.
I want to go home.
But after declining enough invitations, something else happens.
Now it's awkward.
You feel awkward.
Other people feel awkward.
You're quieter than you used to be.
You're not participating the same way.
You're not as enthusiastic.
You're not yourself.
Eventually someone notices.
Maybe your boss checks in.
Maybe HR checks in.
"You seem disengaged."
"What's going on?"
UMMMMMM.
My life blew up a month ago.
What do you think is going on?
I didn't stop caring about my job.
I didn't suddenly become difficult.
I didn't lose my work ethic.
I lost the person I had built my life around.
There is a difference.
Then, when it's deemed that you've been this way for too long, the performance plan comes into play.
You're being punished for grieving your loved one, your life, your future, you security, your traditions!
Of course, that's not what they call it. A performance plan is presented as an opportunity to improve before "discipline."
But what exactly am I supposed to improve?
I'm going to therapy. I'm attending my groups. I'm showing up. I'm doing my work. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing.
I just don't want to be part of my job—or my "work family"—in the same way anymore.
And apparently, that comes with a price.
I've changed. My outlook has changed. My commitment hasn't changed, but my level of connectedness has.
I'm sorry, but I am not the person I was a month and a day ago.
I'm never going to be her again.
Take it or leave it.
Work Suddenly Doesn't Mean Very Much
One of the strangest things about grief is how completely it can rearrange your priorities.
Before someone dies, work can feel important. Climbing the ladder is important, impressing your boss and clients matters, being liked and part of the group mattered…
Deadlines matter.
Meetings matter.
Performance matters.
Office politics can consume entire days.
Then someone you love dies and suddenly you find yourself sitting in a meeting listening to people argue about something that would have mattered enormously to you three months earlier.
And you think:
Who cares?
Not because you're lazy.
Not because you've become irresponsible.
But because you've just been introduced to an entirely different scale of importance.
Life.
Death.
Love.
Loss.
And somewhere beneath those things is the spreadsheet someone desperately needs by Thursday.
You're trying to reconcile those two worlds.
Everyone around you is living in one.
You're living in both.
The World Wants You Back
I think that's what month three felt like.
The world wanted me back.
Work wanted me back.
People wanted me to go out.
Responsibilities wanted my attention.
Life wanted to resume.
And I understood why.
The world hadn't stopped when mine did.
But I wasn't ready to give the world all of me again. Or the before me, for that matter, I wasn’t sure who the current me was, and what she could handle, and I didn’t know the future me just yet.
Part of me still wanted to lock the door, stay inside my house and keep everything outside of it away. I wanted to be with my dog and cat, and no one else.
And maybe that's one of the hardest things about returning to work after someone dies.
Everyone sees you returning.
They see you walk through the door.
They see you sit down at your desk.
They see you answering emails again.
What they can't see is how much of you is still standing somewhere else entirely, staring at the wreckage of the life you had.
They can’t understand, they’ve never experienced it, you can’t expect them to understand and oh boy are they lucky they don't, but you do want compassion, space, time maybe an accomodation.
You haven't returned.
Not really.
You're learning how to live in the world again.
And three months isn't very long to learn how to do that.
Come back for Month 4 — Is My Dog Grieving Too?
Let’s talk about how grief changes the entire household—not just humans—let’s get very personal.
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