I do love that little fish, Dory. But, this isn’t about her.

Several years ago, I had a bad year professionally and this became my mantra.  I knew that I just had to keep going, moving forward, doing the best I knew how to do.  And I made it.  It wasn’t without exhaustion, and it wasn’t without tears, and it wasn’t without bruises.

I would take that bad professional year again if I could trade in the past six months.

But, I can’t. So I have to keep swimming.

I’m not a strong swimmer, actually.  I can stay afloat.  I did pass the swim test in order to receive my degree from college–a requirement when I matriculated. I’d much rather lie on a float though.

This school year began with my maternal grandfather being moved to Hospice House for his last days.  Being a support to my mother and being by his bedside was emotional. Knowing that I wasn’t creating those all so important first day relationships at work was stressful.  A month later my paternal grandmother was diagnosed with brain cancer. Barely past Opa’s death, I launched into watching my grandfather’s love for my grandmother as she said the things she needed to say and did the things she wanted to do.  And after a month she took her last breath on this earth.

And then there was Nugget.

Grief is not something you deal with or get over.

Grief is something you swim with.

Some days, I want that float or to just lie on the bottom of the pool and watch others float on by.  Some days, that’s exactly what I do–hoping that grief will soak off.

But, it doesn’t.

It’s part of me now. And every stroke of swimming with it strengthens me in ways I may not understand now–but will one day.

Because, I have hope.