Fixing Our Fear of the Dark

Why Turning on the Lights Isn't Enough

My kitchen in the middle of the night on the Fujifilm x100vi - with the Bali-Warm recipe

I used to say my daughter was scared of the dark.

If you walk into her room right now, you’ll notice the Christmas lights set to a timer, draped over a stuffed unicorn head hung taxidermy style on her wall. At night, she asks for the antique desk lamp on the far side of the room to be turned on until she falls asleep. These lights provide a nice warm supplement to the night light plugged in right next to her bed. Any unsuspecting passerby could look through the crack under her door and think she’s having an EDM party.

You can understand why I thought my daughter was scared of the dark. However, just a few months ago, I learned that my diagnosis of her nyctophobia might have been a little premature. One night, she wakes up from a terrible dream and sprints down the dark hallway into our bedroom, clearly shaken. After she has her fill of snuggles next to her mother and me, we have to ask her to leave. The first 15 minutes are nice and sweet while she’s trying to fall asleep. Once she’s down, however, she spends the next 90 kicking us in the back and the throat. We politely tell her it’s time for her to go back to her room. Every night is the same. She stands up and says two things. One statement followed by a question.

1. Daddy, I’m scared of the dark.

2. Daddy, will you hold me hand and walk me back to my room?

Her statement is unsurprising….her question though? It always catches me off guard.

She never asks me to turn on a light. She always asks me for my hand. I don’t remember when it clicked for me, but a few months ago, it became very clear that my daughter wasn’t scared of the dark.

She was scared of being alone in the dark.

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Most of us aren’t scared of the darkness of grief and loss. We’re scared of being alone in that darkness.

I’ve learned this truth from Bethel as much as from my own daughter.

We met several years ago in the early months after her late husband David’s passing. I lost my brother several years prior and was introduced to Bethel through our mutual friend Faven, who lost her mother in the years between each of our losses. Grief united us. Our unintentional fluency created a safe space in the briefest of interactions.

I remember the pressure I felt when Faven introduced us. I knew everyone involved was praying I could provide Bethel with some hope. Maybe point her to some light at the end of this dark tunnel. I didn’t have much light and hope back then. The only thing I had to connect her to were four warm hands—two friends who had been widowed before the birth of their first gray hairs. They had walked along that dark path of losing a spouse at a young age, and for Bethel, that made all the difference.

As time passed, I realized that safety was the most helpful thing for a grieving soul.

Fear of the dark isn’t solved by adding light, but by removing loneliness.

Bethel’s book cover. You can find it on Amazon. It’s incredible. I rad the whole in one sitting during Atlanta’s most recent snowday. I was captivated through and through.

Bethel recently wrote and released a book (of which my post this week is the foreword). This book, Not a Cinderella Story, is like a warm hand to hold for anyone searching for hope in the cold darkness of grief and looking for someone to turn on the lights. Bethel knows what it’s like to be drowned in splashes of sorry for your loss. These well meaning statements are intended to bring comfort and people imagine that they bring us some light. Yet, for all the good intentions, many are unaware just how much these phrases repeatedly remind us of our otherness. Our loneliness. The fact that we have less than they do. We have less than we used to.

Our loved ones are more than our lost ones. Bethel gives us a new way forward. This book is an example of how our fluency in grief extends a hand to grievers. Instead of being content hearing sorry for your loss, Bethel shares a story of her love. Every ounce of this is warm, inviting, intimate, sacred, and holy.

With every page, I was reminded that tragedy doesn’t ruin anyone. Hopelessness does.

And as long as we have a warm hand to hold on to, we are reminded that there is more life to live. Our current story is yet an incomplete one, and if we don’t have the strength to hold on to hope, we can experience it vicariously through the warmth of another.

You may still be in the dark.

You may still be scared.

But you’re not crazy.

You are not alone.

You are human.

Thanks for holding our hands through this dark hallway Bethel.

Peace,

John O