Grief Is Not Meant to Be Fixed — It’s Meant to Be Felt

When Loss Reshapes Everything

Losing my mother has been nothing short of life-altering. It’s a grief that sits in my bones, that surprises me when I least expect it, and that reshapes how I understand love, connection, and the future. Some days it feels surreal—like maybe it hasn’t really happened. Other days it slams into me like a tidal wave, catching my breath, tightening my chest, and reminding me that this is now my life: a life without her physical presence.

Grief Comes in Waves—And Each Wave Teaches Me Something New

There are moments where I feel peace—where I catch a glimpse of the sky and feel like she’s in the sunset, watching over me. Sometimes I feel her in my dreams, or sense her presence in the stillness of my space. These moments don’t come with logic or proof, but I know they’re real. I believe she’s still with me, just differently. And oddly, I trust that she can now protect me and support me in ways she couldn’t near the end of her life.

But grief is unpredictable. It’s exhausting. It’s layered. It’s a teacher I never asked for, but one I must listen to.

The Discomfort of Other People’s Comfort

One of the hardest parts of grief is not just the pain itself—but how it gets responded to. People say “Reach out any time,” but they’re often not available when I do. They say, “Let me know how I can help,” but then tell me they’re too busy when I ask. Many mean well—they’re not cruel, just overcommitted or unsure of what to say. But when you’re in the pit of grief, blank offers feel hollow, and vague concern through the grapevine is no substitute for presence.

Some want to “fix” my grief. I’ve been told I’m too smart to feel this way, that I should go to the doctor, that I should stay distracted, keep a routine, not “get into” my sadness or I might fall into depression. What’s more stigmatizing than being told to fear your feelings?

Let me be clear: Grief is not a problem to solve. It’s a human response to love and loss. I don’t need advice. I need presence. I need to feel safe to express, cry, and process without judgment or shame.

Permission to Grieve, Without Apology

I believe deeply in my faith and I know my mother is in a better place. But death is for the living too. We carry the aftermath. We grieve what was, what will never be, and who we now are in their absence. I don’t need to be reminded that she’s at peace—I know. What I need is space to acknowledge how much it hurts that she’s not here.

And when that permission is not given—when I feel misunderstood, judged, or rushed through my process—I withdraw. I stop sharing. I choose solitude over the noise. Not because I want to be alone, but because I don’t want to have to explain or defend my feelings anymore.

Loneliness Within a Crowd

I come from a family of men, many of whom grieve in silence or through work. Their way is theirs. Mine is different. I’m a therapist, a business owner, a grief-informed professional—and still, I am gutted. I’ve paused grief referrals. I refer out. I’ve created a grief corner in my home and built moments into my day that allow the tears to come when they need to. I’m doing what I teach others to do: to honour their feelings, to be intentional, to be compassionate with themselves.

But even with all that, I still feel lonely. I feel the ache of being the “strong one” who holds space for others but finds very few who can hold space for me in return.

What Grief Is Teaching Me About Myself

Grief has taught me to be unapologetic in my sadness. It has deepened my self-trust. It has reminded me that feeling broken doesn’t mean I am broken. I am not weak for needing support. I’m not shameful for crying mid-day or needing structure to function on some days, while no structure at all on others. I’m human.

I’ve learned that people can love you and still not know how to show up for you. I’ve learned that I can love them back, and still name the gap between intention and impact.

And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that time doesn’t heal. It familiarizes. The grief doesn’t go away—it simply becomes something I learn to carry. It still hurts. It’s still shocking. But it becomes less of a jolt, more of a presence.

A Call for Real, Brave Conversations

We need to stop encouraging people to bypass their pain in the name of “moving on.” We need to start creating space for what’s real, even when it’s messy and uncomfortable. We cannot expect people to heal in isolation, in silence, or on someone else’s timeline.

Grief is not a performance. It’s not neat. It’s not linear. It’s a lived experience. If we want to be a society that truly supports mental health, we have to be willing to witness each other’s grief—not just with sympathy, but with presence and respect.

So this is my truth: I’m grieving. I’m learning. I’m surviving. I’m honouring what’s hard. And I’m doing it my way. If you’ve ever felt alone in your grief, know that I see you. Your pain matters. Your process is valid. And you don’t need to explain your sorrow to anyone to make it real.