A couple of days ago, I attended a celebration of life for a woman named Shelly. Shelly was a hockey officiating mentor for me since I first became an official 15 years ago. She came out to watch me at the rink countless times. She encouraged me through many breaks in officiating due to surgeries, always listened when I needed to talk after a tough game, and gave me the feedback I needed to grow and level up as an official. Throughout it all, she always had a warm smile, an infectious laugh, and a life story to share.
Shelly was my inspiration for wanting to become an officiating coach myself one day. Our most recent conversation was about the fact that I was finally going to do it. I’m grateful that during that last conversation, I told her how she was the one who inspired me to take on this role and how I hoped to be as impactful in a young official’s life the way she was in mine. She was very appreciative to hear it, and, of course, shared an amazing pep talk with me to encourage me in my new role.
I will miss her.
Many individuals got up to speak about Shelly and share her impact on their lives. As they choked back their tears, or let them fall, I was reminded of that fresh pain of grief. Where you can’t say their name without tears forming in your eyes. When you can’t say the word death, died, dying or any of its equivalents without everything breaking inside of you. While I wasn’t experiencing the depths of grief for Shelly the way her closest friends and family were, I could feel their feels because I’ve been there when my mom died.
I wouldn’t wish the pain of fresh grief on anyone. As I listened to a man share that he wishes people eulogized the people they loved before they passed on, I was reminded of the things I never said to my mom before she died. As a woman said, “I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve said to myself that I can’t wait to tell Shelly that, and then realized I couldn’t,” it stings, because I still remember that feeling all too well.
Grief is hard. That fresh grief feels impossible to get through. Thankfully it does get a bit less sharp after some time and healing, at least in my experience.
Rest in Peace, Shelly. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me!
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❤️
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