Grief is a journey that unfolds in unexpected ways, often layered with complexities that can only be understood through experience. When someone we love passes, the world shifts beneath our feet. The sorrow that follows feels like a heavy cloud, one that can distort reality and make every breath a struggle. My own journey through grief, and the way it shaped my understanding of bereavement, is a testament to how we can find meaning and connection even in our darkest moments.
I lost both of my grandmothers and my grandfather as a young adult, and while their loss was profound, the greatest pain came from witnessing the grief of my parents. Seeing them try to protect us from their heartbreak, even as they themselves grappled with overwhelming sadness, left a lasting imprint on me. These moments taught me that bereavement is never a solitary experience—it ripples out, impacting entire families and reshaping dynamics.
I experienced the shock of losing my dad 28 years ago. His death brought an immediate expectation to take over his business, to "keep it together" for everyone else. Friends and family, well-meaning as they may have been, often made the most painful comments: "Time heals," "Stay strong," “You’ll be fine” "If you need me, call." At that time, I couldn't even think straight, let alone ask for help. Their platitudes only deepened my sense of isolation. I wanted to yell at them to “just shut up”—to just be present rather than say something because they felt they had to. My experience with them has sat with me to this day but over time I have come to recognise that it is only when you touched by death, do you really understand to pain and struggle of it.
Nothing prepared me for the loss of my husband—just three hours after we were married, at what became his deathbed. I knew before we married that he would die that day. The hospital had woken me that morning to come and had informed me that this was his last day and helped us both to get his last affairs in order. He wanted to be married. We both had, but not like this. And still I was not prepared for that loss. His passing left me shattered in a way that words could never truly express. What made the pain even worse was the reaction from his family—people who had barely been present during his illness suddenly emerged, demanding, angry and bitter. They seemed more focused on his possessions than on his memory, and their actions left me feeling isolated and fearful. I was subjected to abusive messages and found myself being horrendously bullied for many months afterwards. What should have been a time of shared grief became one of emotional aggression, a stark reminder that loss often stirs up the worst in people. And nobody prepares you for that. How can they?
Grief felt like being trapped in a bubble—a black, isolating bubble where time slowed down. Everything felt meaningless while the rest of the world carried on. I remember vividly how confusing it was to look at photographs, seeing the vibrant smiles of people who were no longer there, or noticing my husband's slippers under the bed, just where he had left them. These small remnants of a life shared felt frozen in time, yet painfully empty. And still, I went on—I went to work, I cooked, I arranged his funeral "helped" by my agressors .and unable to refuse them. I chose his clothes for that final goodbye. And some days, I broke down completely.
This is an important aspect of bereavement recognised by Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut who describe it is the dual process model. This model emphasises the oscillation or twoing and froing, between two types of coping: loss-oriented and restoration-oriented. Loss-oriented coping involves focusing on the grief itself—mourning the person, dwelling on memories, and expressing emotions.
Restoration-oriented coping, on the other hand, involves adjusting to life without the loved one — finding new routines, taking on new roles, and slowly re-engaging with the world.
In my journey, I experienced both—there were days when I could do nothing but cry, and days when I forced myself to get up and take care of practical matters. The dual process model has helped me understand that it was okay to move between these two states, that grief does not have to be an all-consuming experience every single day.
Losing my mum seemed to be even more painful than the other losses I had experienced. The pain of losing a loved one is always unique, but this one cut deeper. I remember going to pick up the phone to call her, only to suddenly remember she was no longer there. That shock was like reliving the loss all over again. The circumstances of her death were particularly cruel, and because of that, her body went to the coroner. When we finally got her back, I looked in the coffin and was horrified. That was not my mum—distorted and unfamiliar. No one prepares you for this. People tell you to "be strong," that "time heals all wounds" but no one talks about what happens to the body of the person who dies, what to expect from a coroner, or the pain of disagreeing with their findings and being unable to do anything about it. No one prepares you for the distress and trauma. No one tells you about the pain of these things but many expect you to be able to carry on relatively quickly. And truthfully, for the most part, we do carry on.
Watching a loved one pass away can be traumatic. There is a romanticised notion that being beside someone as they take their final breaths is somehow peaceful. But the reality is often anything but—it is painful, shocking, and sears into your memory forever. The sound of the final breaths, and then the silence—these are things that stay with you. No one warns you about the anguish that comes from witnessing the end, nor about the way the world keeps turning while you feel like you've come to a standstill. Or that those left behind will each have an opinion about how you should grieve and how you should move forward.
Grief is complex, and the impact it has on our mental and physical health can be profound. I experienced sleepless nights, anxiety, and a physical heaviness that was almost unbearable. The stress took a toll on my body—my muscles were constantly tense, and my chest felt tight. It was as though my body was holding on to the pain, unable to release it. Many people who go through grief, experience physical symptoms like these, but we rarely talk about them. The body keeps the score, and the pain of loss manifests in ways that go beyond emotional suffering.
Bereavement theory often speaks to the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—as outlined by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. While these stages can provide a framework, my experience has shown that grief is far from linear. It is a winding path, and people move back and forth between these emotions, sometimes experiencing them all at once. The idea that we must move through these stages in a neat sequence can be misleading and even harmful. Instead, I have found it more helpful to think of grief as waves—sometimes small and manageable, sometimes overwhelming. There were days when I felt like I was drowning in those waves, unable to come up for air. And then there were days when the water was calm, and I could finally breathe. It is this ebb and flow that makes grief so unpredictable and exhausting.
The role of meaning-making in grief is another key concept that resonates with my experience. The work of grief researcher Robert Neimeyer emphasises the importance of finding meaning after a loss. This does not mean finding a reason for the death, but rather creating a narrative that allows the bereaved to integrate the loss into their lives. For me, this process began when I started to remember my loved ones not just for their death, but for the life they lived. In the beginning I was confused looking at old photos and seeing my loved ones very much alive and well but the more I looked at them I found solace. I also found solace in talking about the happy memories, and in allowing myself to feel the love that still existed, even in their absence. I began to find ways to honour their memory—small rituals that helped me keep their presence alive in my heart. Whether it was cooking my mum's favourite recipe or listening to a song that reminded me of my husband, these acts became a way to bring them into my present life, rather than leaving them entirely in the past.
One of the most challenging aspects of grief can be the negative thoughts that arise—feelings of guilt, anger, or regret. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) can be helpful in challenging these thoughts. I remember feeling immense guilt after my husband's death—wondering if I could have done something differently, if I had missed something. CBT techniques, such as examining the evidence for and against these thoughts, can help in reframing them. It is not about denying the pain, but about recognising when our thoughts are unhelpful and learning to treat ourselves with the same compassion, we would offer a friend. I learned to forgive myself, with the help of prayer, for not being able to control everything, for being human in the face of unimaginable loss. This self-compassion was a crucial part of my healing.
Rituals and memory work also play a crucial role in bereavement. Creating a memory box, writing letters to the deceased, or even speaking to them aloud can provide comfort and a sense of connection. I remember how much it helped me to choose my husband's clothes for his funeral, to hold onto the things that reminded me of him. These small acts allowed me to honour his memory and keep a part of him with me, even as I slowly learned to let go. After my husband's death, I created a small garden with a bench area where I could go to pray. This became a sacred space for me—a place where I could connect with his memory in moments of reflection and prayer. Since my mum's death, I have been unable to even visit her grave, such is the trauma I experienced. The pain of her loss is sharpened whenever I think about visiting her resting place, even now, seven years later. Grief is unpredictable in this way—sometimes we find comfort in connection, and sometimes the pain is too raw to bear.
For many, spirituality or faith can be an essential part of the grieving process. My faith was a source of both comfort and conflict during my grief. I often felt that my beliefs were sidelined in the counselling room, and it wasn't until my counsellor acknowledged my spirituality that I felt truly seen. This experience highlighted for me the importance of integrating a client's faith or belief system into their bereavement journey, if that is meaningful to them. The passage she shared with me—"Be still, and know that I am God"—became an anchor in my healing process. My faith allowed me to believe that my loved ones were at peace, and this belief helped me move forward in my grief. Prayer became a way for me to find strength when I felt weakest, and to find hope when everything seemed hopeless.
The societal aspects of grief are also significant. We live in a culture that often avoids discussing death and bereavement openly. There is an unspoken expectation to "move on" and return to normal life as quickly as possible. This pressure can make the grieving process even more isolating. I remember returning to work after losing my husband and feeling like I was expected to just pick up where I left off, as though nothing had happened. The world kept moving, but I was still stuck in my grief. This disconnect made me feel alienated, as if my pain was something to be hidden or rushed through. It took time for me to understand that grief is not something that can be neatly packaged away—it is a lifelong journey, and it deserves space and acknowledgment.
Support systems are crucial during times of grief, but they can also be complex. Family and friends can provide incredible comfort, but they can also add to the pain. My husband's family, for instance, made an already unbearable situation even harder. This experience taught me that not all support is helpful, and that setting boundaries is sometimes necessary for self-preservation. On the other hand, there were friends who showed up in quiet, meaningful ways—bringing me meals, sitting with me in silence, or simply listening without trying to fix anything. These gestures, however small, were lifelines in my darkest moments. They reminded me that I was not alone, and that there were still people who cared deeply for me.
Grief is never one-size-fits-all. As I have shown from my own experiences, every loss is different and brings different challenges & emotions. For some, it’s the darkness that engulfs them, and for others, it’s the sharp sting of loneliness. Bereavement theory offers various frameworks and tools that can help us understand and navigate this complex journey, but ultimately, grief is deeply personal. My hope is that by sharing my story, others may find comfort in knowing they are not alone, and that there are ways—however small—to begin to heal. Together, we can remember the people who shaped us, the ones we lost, and find a way to carry them forward—in our hearts, in our memories, and in our lives.
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