We hear about grief again and again — but do we really understand it? Do we notice all the places in our lives where we quietly refuse to grieve?
What do we actually know about grieving? And how were we raised to deal with it? What understanding of grief was handed down to us?
It still surprises me how often I find myself confused, restless, dissatisfied, or simply unable to name what I need — and then it all comes back to one simple thing: I didn’t allow myself to grieve.
Life is a constant series of beginnings and endings. We grow, we shed, we evolve. And maybe the faster we grow, the more often we have to grieve.
One of the moments that always showed me this was sorting through my children’s things. Packing away toys they no longer used, clothes they’d outgrown… one phase quietly closing as another one opened. When you put away the last dolls or the last toy cars, childhood shifts into something else. And as a mother, especially with the last child, there’s this tiny tenderness, a soft sadness: that time is over now. They become teenagers, then adults. Life moves.
Every phase holds a little good-bye. A celebration of what was, mixed with the awareness that we might not have been fully present for all of it.
Yes — that is grieving.
But grief also appears when we grow apart from someone we were once close to. When someone we love adopts new beliefs or chooses a path far from ours. When we realise we are powerless, that this is a journey we will not be joining.
That, too, needs to be grieved.
But what does grieving actually mean?
Is it just sadness?
To me, grief is the willingness to allow sadness and to allow pain. And when we do that, memories and feelings rise up — moments we wished had gone differently, chances of connection we missed, decisions we would choose differently today.
All of this wants to be felt. That’s the only way it clears. That’s how we mature, and how we create space for the next chapter.
So why is it so hard?
Because it takes us into territory we once avoided. Feelings that used to feel “dangerous” start surfacing again. We have to do this gently, with understanding, kindness, and a lot of self-respect. It’s a journey — sometimes uncomfortable — but you know why you’re doing it.
Because when we don’t allow ourselves to grieve, we end up in that foggy, restless, unhappy space where nothing seems quite right and no solution feels satisfying. That state is what becomes unbearable. And then we slip into the “I don’t care” mode just to avoid feeling — and of course, that also has its cost.
And what did we learn about grief growing up?
Were we surrounded by people who showed us how to face emotions?
For me, the answer was mostly no. My childhood experience around grief was more chaos than guidance. Emotions were there, yes — but without safety, without clarity, without calm. No one showed me how to feel something without drowning in it. So I learned to avoid grief, because it felt overwhelming and unpredictable.
It was only much later in life that something shifted. I remember the first time I met someone who cried openly — really cried — and gave voice to her pain without shame and without needing to be rescued. She didn’t want pity. What she wanted, and received, was dignity: the simple space to express her sadness and be witnessed.
Seeing that for the first time opened a door in me.
It taught me that grief can be held with presence, honesty, and humanity. That feeling deeply doesn’t mean losing yourself — it means allowing what’s true.
Understanding that life is made of phases — beginnings and endings, growing and learning — and that every ending, big or small, involves grief… this has helped me so much. It helps me recognise when I need to grieve. And to actually allow it.
And strangely enough, once I give myself permission to feel, everything I felt powerless about loosens its grip. I no longer need control.
And that, for me, is the quiet gift of grief.