One time, a young female client visited me on her birthday. She was grieving the loss of her best friend, and while reflecting on the day, she told me - “time scares me.”

She said the more time passes, the more she is bewildered as to what the asshole who said ‘Time Heals’ meant, and where he could be found.

Every passing milestone is an insulting reminder of the friend not being there. Growing up and entering new phases of life feels like betraying her friend. Her life is moving on, begrudgingly, but she pauses at every new corner, waiting for her friend to meet her there. We named those moments, the “Can you believe that Bitch didn’t show up again?”

My sessions with her tend to leave me softened and slightly amused. Despite very different circumstances, the griever in me sees the young griever in her, and has to bite her tongue. Navigating young adulthood in itself is rough. The added layer of grief enhances the sense of separateness and isolation which already exists in the process of figuring out who you are in the world.

And her friend, that Bitch, isn’t even showing up to help.

Those of us who have lost a loved one at an early age have a that Bitch.

A sharp memory floats to mind for me; I was a 19 year old soldier in the IDF, freshly heartbroken by a boy whom I believed was the antidote to my grief, waiting at a crowded bus stop listening to a dated Alanis Morrisette album on a cd player. The fabric of the uniform didn't breathe, and beads of sweat began forming under my eyes and nose. I felt like I was suffocating in this new life, where the only thing I could control was the soundtrack.

I remember catching my reflection on the glass window of the bus that arrived. The glossy distorted image that was reflected back to me felt like a slap in the face- there I was, a soldier in uniform, but still heartbroken and angry. It was another milestone that would be experienced without my mom - lost 9 months prior in a car accident. I was heartbroken and needed her, and that Bitch didn’t even show up to tell me I looked cute in my uniform - even though I most definitely did not.

Since those non-photogenic days in the army, I have experienced countless moments of waiting at different corners of life waiting for her to join me. Sometimes I defiantly ran through them without looking, and sometimes I hovered there waiting and hoping.

Time didn’t heal, but it passed and other people joined me at those street corners. I never stopped hoping that Bitch would show up, but I learned to celebrate my own milestones and honor the missing piece which is always present.

My client and I ended the session blowing out a metaphorical candle for her birthday, and saying a tearful, “I miss you, Bitch.”

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The bigger presence that is missing