Grief doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ring the doorbell politely, wait on the
porch, or send a calendar invite. It crashes through the windows —
sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes during the
celebration of a once-in-a-lifetime event.
elebration of a once-in-a-lifetime event.
It doesn’t come when you’re ready — because there’s no such thing as ready.
When my father died, I learned the news the day before I was discharged from
the hospital with my newborn baby. I was a first-time mother, and my
daughter needed me fully present. There was no room for grief.
My mother was stoic — unshaken on the surface. There was no mention of my
father’s death, no space for her own grief, and not once did I see her cry.
But grief doesn’t disappear. It waits. Fifteen years later, after her death, the
vault that had held my grief for my father cracked wide open — along with the
gut-wrenching grief I now felt for my mother.
Dear Heart,
Right now, you may feel like you are
drowning. Some days you might not want
to get out of bed. Some days you may feel
oddly “okay” — and then guilty for that.
Some days you might rage, or sob, or go
completely numb. All of this is grief. There
is no wrong way to feel.
You don’t have to rush. You don’t have to
be strong for everyone else. You don’t
have to make sense of this right away.
Breathe when you can. Rest when you
need. Cry as much or as little as comes.
Grief is love with nowhere to go, and it
demands time and gentleness.
Most of all, you are not broken. You are
grieving. There is a difference.
A letter to the new griever
What you don’t have to do right now
In these early days, the pressure can be overwhelming — from others, but also
from yourself. Here’s what you don’t have to do right now:
You don’t have to make big decisions. Selling houses, changing jobs,
moving cities — those choices can wait. Grief clouds clarity. Give yourself
permission to delay.
You don’t have to be okay. Numbness, tears, panic, anger, exhaustion —
all are natural. Healing doesn’t come from pretending.
You don’t have to accept every invitation or explain yourself. “No” is a
complete sentence. Protect your energy.
You don’t have to forget. People may encourage you to “move on.” You
don’t need to. Carry your person with you in ways that matter to you.
The only thing you must do is survive today. Tomorrow will ask its own
questions.
“You give yourself permission to grieve by
recognizing the need for grieving.”
— Alan D. Wolfelt
Personal whispers of grief…
“When my husband died, I thought I had to keep it together for my kids. I wish someone had told me
they didn’t need me to be perfect — they needed me to be honest.”
“I wish I had known I didn’t have to answer the phone every time. It’s okay to let people leave
voicemails.”
“I learned too late that I didn’t need to box up his things right away. I could take my time. I wish I
had given myself that permission earlier.”
“I thought grief had a look like constant crying. I didn’t realise zoning out in front of the TV was also
grief. It would’ve helped to know numbness is normal.”
Closing thought…
If you are just beginning, please know this: you don’t have to do it all right
now. You don’t even have to know what tomorrow looks like. All you have to
do is carry yourself through this moment, then the next, and then the next.
One day, the ache will shift, but it won’t ever vanish. It will soften enough
that you can carry it differently. Until then, let yourself be new at this. Let
yourself be exactly where you are.
And remember, there is no wrong or right way to grieve. Just do it your way.
