Grieving as an Enneagram 1

You'll do it imperfectly, and that's important to know

My father died before Christmas. It’s been six months and it’s still a surprise to write those words down.

I’ve shared with friends that this experience is a two sided coin—one side grief because of our great loss, one side gratitude because of the great life he lived—and I don’t know how to spend it.

We celebrate my dad this week. After the long disruption of the pandemic that made it nearly impossible for people to meet and properly remember him. So I thought of one way I can spend the coin placed in my hand. Here’s a few observations of what it’s like to grieve as an Enneagram One.

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My hope in so doing is that someone else in the unfortunate position of grief (or perhaps the unfortunate personality profile that is the E1) might find some camaraderie or comfort in the words.

Grief is confusing.

I imagine that’s true for any personality type. But, as I noted above (somewhat in jest), for the unfortunate Enneagram One, grappling with what to do about the loss is a challenge.

There’s the loss itself. Then all the circumstances around the loss that you have to sort through in the midst of a reality you can’t change. For personalities that thrive on order, that's disorienting.

For me the grief is layered with some trauma, distance and all the what-ifs of the past two years of disruption when medicine, travel and a family’s ability to be near their loved one in the midst of health crisis was totally upended.

Whatever the circumstances around your loss, just know that your ears may start to ring like the scene from {pick your war film} as a beleaguered solider staggers in the confusion of a battle.

Conversation around grief is performative, which can make you feel inauthentic.

There’s something about grief that seems so very rehearsed, and badly at that. There's unspoken expectations about what grief should look like, what to say and how to say it.

And we're all bad at it. There's no thing that can perfectly fill the space so we rehearse canned lines or say nothing at all.

My experience with the recent death of my father has shown me how true this has been of me when others have gone through tragedy in the past. How performative I've been! To now be on the receiving end of the “imperfect condolence” has been fascinating, humbling.

You will not know what to say or how to say it. You won’t know what to do or how to do it. And therefore…

…You’ll grieve imperfectly.

This stings. I’ve often described myself as a recovering perfectionist and the Enneagram Ones that I know typically relate. So to face the loss of a close loved one and not have a clear manual or guidebook to follow adds to the discomfort.

I recently wrote a poem in which I call out this need to grieve perfectly. I’ve:

Imagined a solitary crystal tear so exquisite and ordained strangers want to lick it off my skin as it rolls down my cheek

~ from All this, too, is grief

Un/fortunately, I’m not a very public crier. And my tears don’t fall exquisitely.

Perfectionists avoid doing things they’re interested in or curious about simply because they know they won’t do it well in normal circumstances. Why start something you can’t finish? Why do something you can’t do well?

When someone you love dies you have to grieve. It sucks to not know how to do it or to do it well. Acknowledging you won’t do it perfectly is important, even freeing.

You’ll grieve as yourself.

I proactively met with a grief counsellor after my dad’s death, knowing that I’d need some tips and tools to navigate the uncharted territory. I’m glad I did, if only for the practical phrase my counsellor shared with me that cut through my sheepish uncertainty:

"Doesn’t it make sense that you’ll grieve as yourself? You’ll be {your name here} in grief too.”

For me that means I’ve been intellectual, private (except for this post, so cue the epic vulnerability hangover) and generally have punted the emotion forward into the future like a soccer ball, to simply get through a wild and busy season of life in which stopping everything to just deal (what would be my preferred method) simply isn’t an option.

I’ve also found an outlet and some catharsis in quiet moments of remembrance or reflection. In the line of a beloved book. In the lyric of a song or the clarity of a Psalm. In a profound moment in a film. In a surprise flash of a memory. That’s my way, and so why not also in grief?

Said differently, you do you.

For me, much freedom came when I realized I was trying to grieve according to some imagined, unidentified ideal. After that realization I permitted myself to grieve how I choose. That helps.

The love is in the words and in the actions.

It’s strange and wonderful to accept the genuine kindness of friends, family and strangers. However imperfectly it may be given or received. Meals and cards and flowers, all symbols of care. All attempts to cross the wide gap of isolation. To be a balm to the wound that cannot be touched.

One of the most comforting things I've received was an unrehearsed and singular word dropped with such sincerity and compassion by a friend as I recounted some of the facts and tragedy of my loss. I’ll forever be grateful for that unscripted human moment and for the precise but unexpected declaration.

And so I suspect the way forward with grief is to express the love for the one lost, the idea of them, the memory of them, through authentic words and actions. Writing a remembrance of my father was one such outlet for grief. Turning my attention away from the vague expectation of what grief should look like to focus on who he was, and therefore why grief should be expressed at all, is meaningful.

There's grace in grief, too.

God will meet you there, in the grief. This tender mercy, present in all stages and moments of life mingles with the reality of the loss, including all the what-ifs, if-only’s and the why's.

While grace is unmerited and cannot be earned, I've found I'm more attentive to its presence when I sit in the gratitude: remembering the person I loved, all the good there was, stories and memories.

That is a journey unto itself, both tenuous and dependent on time. For me, inviting God in there, to the most tender and personal space of grief, a place of mutual acquaintance, is comforting.

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However you've arrived at this article, whether seeking insight into the grief process of an Enneagram One (#fwiw) or mourning the loss of a loved one, I hope you've found some fellowship in these words.

~ AK

1. “Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic” are the four main characteristics that the Enneagram Institute use to define the idealistic, rational E1. Read more here.