Sometimes, it feels really hard to be honest.
When I write these blogs, I usually try to hit multiple marks: a mix of informative, reflective, a little bit motivational, and yes, sometimes I hope it’ll help people find their way to my counselling practice too.
I usually write about issues I care about deeply, things I have lived experience in, or topics I know are affecting the people around me, whether they’re clients, friends, or just people existing in a very full, often overwhelming world.
But if I’m being truly honest, this year has been incredibly challenging. And the thing that’s made writing particularly hard, the thing that’s been overshadowing almost everything, is this:
Grief.
I have been grieving, and I am grieving.
This isn’t the first time I’ve lost someone I love. I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost grandparents, I’ve lost beloved pets.
But this was the first time I lost a parent (at least, a parent I knew - adoption makes that more complicated).
And what I’ve realised through this painful, confusing, and deeply personal experience is that we don’t talk about grief enough.
I’m not trying to be the expert here. I’m not saying these are “8 tips to heal” or “how to get through grief in 5 easy steps.”
This isn’t that.
This is simply what I’ve learned - and what I’m still learning - about grieving.
We often talk about grief in “stages.” You know the ones: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. They’re from the Kübler-Ross model (1969), and most of us were taught this in school or saw it on TV.
But in real life? Grief isn’t neat or linear. It doesn’t follow a checklist. You don’t tick off “anger” one week and “depression” the next and then land softly in “acceptance.”
Instead, grief is a loop, a wave, a boomerang. It’s something that can hit you suddenly and unexpectedly - even months or years later.
Grief can be triggered by the smallest things:
A routine that’s changed
A smell that reminds you of them
A song on the radio
A TV show you used to watch together
A birthday or holiday without them
Even phrases or mannerisms you’ve inherited from them can become reminders of their absence. Little echoes that catch you off guard.
People often assume you move through grief and eventually arrive at some “end point,” but for many of us, that simply isn’t true.
Grief evolves. It softens, maybe. But it doesn’t disappear.
One of the most painful truths about grief is how isolating it can be - even when you’re not grieving alone.
I grieved alongside other family members, but our experiences were completely different. We had different relationships with the person we lost, different memories, and different ways of coping. It made me realise that even shared grief isn’t always shared the same way.
It can feel incredibly lonely. Like no one truly understands what you're going through. Even those closest to you might feel like bystanders.
And the world doesn’t pause for your pain. Work continues. Bills need paying. Dishes still pile up in the sink. People stop checking in as frequently.
Suddenly, it feels like life has gone back to normal, except your “normal” has been shattered.
You're in a whole new reality, and it's hard to explain that to people who aren't living it.
Sadness is definitely a big part of grief, but it’s not the whole picture. Grief is a full-body, full-spectrum emotional experience.
You might feel anger - at the person who died, at the universe, at medical staff, at people who say the wrong thing, or at nothing in particular.
You might feel guilt - for what you did or didn’t say, for not being there enough, for finding moments of joy after they're gone.
You might feel relief - especially if they suffered. And then guilt about feeling relief.
Grief is messy.
It is layered.
And it doesn’t always make sense.
When we only associate grief with only sadness, we miss how much more complex it is. We don’t talk enough about the confusion, the numbness, the rage, the apathy, or even the occasional laughter - all of which can be part of the grieving process.
When you’re carrying so many emotions at once, it’s easy to run out of capacity. You might notice you’re more irritable, snappy, or withdrawn. Not because you’re not coping, but because you’re running on empty. You’re still grieving, still functioning, but with very little left in the tank.
We often talk about grief as lonely, and it is. But it’s not just the kind of loneliness that comes from your own internal experience. There’s also a very real social discomfort that surrounds grief, which can leave you feeling even more isolated.
People don’t always know what to say. They might change the subject, offer clichés, or go quiet altogether. There seems to be an unspoken time limit - a few weeks, maybe a few months - after which it feels awkward to bring it up again. You might start to feel like you’re being too much, too emotional, or too stuck.
You could still be thinking about the person who died every day, but you stop talking about it because no one else is. The grief hasn’t gone away. It’s just that the space to share it has.
It’s not that people are unkind. We just don’t have a shared language or culture that knows how to hold ongoing grief. And that silence can be painful. You might find yourself avoiding conversations completely, especially when the honest answer to “how are you?” keeps feeling like: “still broken,” “still sad,” “still grieving.”
We don’t often talk enough about how grief lasts longer than the world’s comfort with it, and how hard it is to carry something so heavy, so quietly.
This might seem obvious, but I don’t think we always acknowledge the depth of this transformation.
Some losses tilt your world slightly. Others flip it upside down.
When I lost a friend in my teens, it changed me. It was my first real confrontation with the fragility of life.
When I lost a grandparent, I became more aware of ageing and legacy.
When I lost a parent, someone who shaped my world in deep and complicated ways, everything changed.
Each loss added a new layer to who I am.
And if you’ve experienced profound grief, you probably know this too:
You are not the same person afterwards.
You carry the loss with you. It shapes how you see the world, how you love, how you connect, and how you plan for the future.
There is no going back.
I know it might sound strange, but there’s a grief theory that’s become really popular, especially in therapeutic spaces, called Growing Around Grief (Tonkin, 1996). I’ll include a visual below to help illustrate it.
The idea is that when we lose someone, life temporarily shrinks down to 'just grief'. The emotional weight, the practical admin, the shock. Everything becomes about the loss - making phone calls, cancelling services, receiving flowers and cards. Your whole world can revolve around someone's death.
Eventually, that begins to slow. In this model, the grief itself doesn’t shrink. It doesn’t really go away. But over time, life starts to expand again. Your capacity for connection, laughter, joy, and even purpose, begins to stretch. Not always because you choose it. Sometimes life just nudges it's way in.
Then, there comes a moment in the grieving process, or maybe several moments, when life begins to grow again. You smile. You enjoy something. You feel a moment of peace. And it’s jarring because part of you doesn’t want to feel okay.
Letting that happen can be hard. It can feel like betrayal. You can find yourself missing the intensity of grief because at least then you still felt connected to that person.
The expansion can be beautiful. But it can also come with its own strange discomfort. For some, it might feel safer to stay sad than to face the guilt that can come with moving forward. Letting yourself feel joy again can be another kind of loss, like grieving the grief itself.
I think that’s an important part of this model too.
Yes, we grow around grief. But that growth can feel complicated, tender, and not always linear.
Grief doesn’t just affect your emotions - it can change how you think and see the world. Losing someone you care about deeply can make you question your place in the world, your relationships, and even your safety. You might find yourself becoming more anxious or hyper-aware; maybe worrying about what you eat or how you drive. Worrying about the health of those you love. This is a natural response to trauma and loss.
Watching someone die, especially someone you love, is incredibly traumatic. It can leave you feeling powerless in a world that suddenly feels unpredictable and uncontrollable. Many people try to regain some control by making sense of what happened or protecting themselves from further pain.
Grief often raises big, difficult questions, like:
For some, grief strengthens spiritual beliefs; for others, it shakes their faith. Both reactions are valid parts of the process.
Despite the advice and answers out there, comfort and meaning must be found personally.
There is no universal roadmap to inner peace. Each person must find their own way.
On that subject, I usually end my blogs with a little call to action - something like, “If this resonates, reach out,” or “Counselling can help.” And yes, I do believe therapy can be a really valuable space to process grief.
But I also want to be honest.
There are no perfect words that make grief go away. Not from a friend, not from a therapist, not from a book, or podcast, or quote.
There is no magic fix.
But what I can say is this:
You don’t have to carry it alone.
Grief counselling isn’t about giving you a “cure.”
It’s about sitting with you in the mess. Making space for your tears, your stories, your silence.
It’s about helping you honour what you’ve lost while making space for what’s still here.
Grief is ongoing. It is love, in another form.
And love, even in its most painful forms, deserves to be witnessed.
Thank you for sharing this so honestly. Losing a parent changes you in ways that are hard to put into words, and you’ve captured the reality of grief with so much clarity and compassion. It’s comforting, in a heavy way, to see grief spoken about without timelines or tidy conclusions. Holding space for you, and for everyone who sees themselves in your words. 🤍