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Grief has a way of showing up uninvited—sometimes loud and crashing, sometimes quiet and sneaky. It’s not just about death. It can come from the end of a relationship, the loss of a dream, or even a version of yourself you’ve let go of.

I’ve lived through more than one kind of grief, and every time, I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding a way to keep living while carrying what can’t be undone.

In the last three years, I’ve lost my aunt Kathy, my stepfather Jerry, my uncle Ed, both of my doggies, my son’s father, and my father. Each loss has shaped a new version of myself.

Before I lost my dad, there was another kind of grief watching my son lose his father, my former husband, and one of my closest friends. His death came first, but it was my father’s passing that opened something even deeper in me.

When my dad died in May 2024, it wasn’t just the grief of losing him, but the grief of losing a version of myself—the daughter who loved her daddy, her papa, her protector, her joke-teller, her funny-face maker. He was someone who knew my history from the beginning.

There are moments even now when I catch myself wanting to call him, text him, share something with him—a picture, a show or documentary, a funny story or even a disappointment—to hear his voice say, “You’ve got this, kid.”

And then there’s the heart-stopping ache of hearing my son grieve—not just after his dad died, but in the days leading up to it. I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t hold him. The distance was magnified. His panic. His horror. The cries tore through me. I had never heard pain like that from my man/boy. I held the phone to my chest and cried quietly, so he couldn’t hear me, but I know his heart did.

Thank God for our family of friends—they were there to hold him when I couldn’t. Maybe it helped. There was love, the real stuff, the kind of love that only exists in that kind of trauma.

Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t wrap up neatly or wait for you to be ready. It moves in waves—some small, some that knock you flat on your ass.

Over time, I’ve stopped trying to ‘get over it.’ Instead, grief has lived through me. It’s shaped how I see love, memory, and connection. It’s taught me not to wait. To say the hard things. To say the kind things. So, when the time comes, I don’t carry the weight of words unsaid.

There’s a well-known framework called the Five Stages of Grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—first introduced by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. These stages were originally meant to describe the experience of people facing terminal illness, but over time, they’ve been applied to all kinds of loss.

Later, grief expert David Kessler expanded the model to include a sixth stage: finding meaning. He acknowledged that grief is not linear, and the stages don’t unfold in order—and they certainly don’t ever end completely.

Sometimes, denial shows up in the tiny habits that haven’t caught up yet—like scrolling for their number to send a quick text, reaching for a card I know they’d love, or adding their name to the holiday list.

Sometimes, anger creeps up while I’m frustrated with a project or triggered by an insensitive comment. Or it shows up as blame like an unexpected gut punch. I’ve blamed myself for not calling more, not visiting sooner, not being in two places at once. I’ve blamed doctors, time zones, the universe, even the person who died—as if anyone could have done it differently. It’s irrational, but grief doesn’t care. Blame becomes a way to make sense of the senseless, a place to park the pain for a while when there’s nowhere else to put it.

I’ve felt bargaining too—the aching for just one more moment. One more hug. One more goodbye snuggle. One more smell of my dad’s stinky cigars or the sweet smell of his pipe smoke that still lingers in the pages of the journal he kept for me. Just one more normal day, when they all existed in this world, a world I’m still living in.

Depression can sit like a cloud—creepy and heavy some days, hopeful and quiet on others.

And then there are flickers of acceptance. Moments where I realize I’m still here. Still moving. Still loving. Still capable of joy, laughter, and connection—even in the shadows of these losses.

There’s a part of grief no one talks about because it feels selfish or shameful. Alongside the pain, there’s sometimes relief. Not just that they’re no longer suffering—but that certain responsibilities or tensions are suddenly gone.

Some people notice their routines are lighter. The silence is easier. And sometimes, there’s a strange comfort in knowing our secrets died with them—shameful moments, painful memories, things only they knew and now never will be spoken of again.

And then there are the things we inherit—money, property, or even little items we always quietly coveted. Family heirlooms, or purchases chosen together. Sometimes these things come with guilt, because receiving them means our loved one had to die.

It doesn’t mean you didn’t love them. It means grief is layered. And part of acceptance is facing all of it—even the parts that feel too complicated to say out loud.

Losing my doggies, Lola and Chelsea, was a unique and profound kind of grief. They weren’t “just pets.” They were my four-legged family.

They were like children in an easier way—companions who offered unconditional and consistent love. The kind of love humans just can’t provide. There are no bad memories of them disappointing me, or being mean, dismissive, or selfish.

And their final moments—holding them as they took their last breaths—were both beautiful and heartbreaking. The depth of that kind of loss is indescribable. It’s the grief of loving with no regrets. Of knowing I gave them the best life I could. And for that, I carry no shame or guilt—just deep, honest sadness.

Sometimes, grief brings gifts I didn’t expect: a sharper intuition, a deeper sense of empathy, the ability to sit with someone else’s sorrow without needing to fix it.

There’s a kind of wisdom that only comes from loss—an unspoken knowing of what it means to keep living with a heart that’s been stretched wide open.

I’m learning that grief doesn’t mean something’s broken in me. It means I love deeply—and that love has nowhere else to go, except through me now.

Grief isn’t a problem to fix. It’s a wound to tend to—a sacred thread that connects us to what matters most. Whether it’s a parent, a partner, a friend, or a beloved animal who slept by our side every night—grief is the echo of love. And if we let it, that echo can become a quiet guide, leading us gently through memory and, eventually, peace.

And then there’s the mystery.

The part we can’t explain but somehow feel.

What happens after death? Where do they go? Do they stay with us? Are they around? Can they see us? Feel us? Hear us?

I don’t know the answers. But I’ve had moments that make me wonder: a crow pecking at my window when I’m deep in thought. Hummingbirds and dragonflies appearing in odd places. My dad’s contact photo suddenly popping up on my phone—his face, his name—but
no missed call. Just a whisper (well, in his case, more like a very loud version of a Mel Brooks character): “I’m still here, my meydele.” (Meydele means sweet girl in Yiddish.) And just yesterday, after a heartfelt conversation with my son about how our fathers’
dreams live on through us, I sat at a stoplight, thinking. Out of nowhere, two bubbles floated gently across my windshield—no kids, no soap, no explanation. Just a quiet, shimmering sign. I smiled, feeling them both whisper: “We’re here. Keep going.”

Maybe they’re just coincidences, or maybe they’re sacred echoes. I choose to believe they’re messages, spoken in a language the soul understands. Subtle taps on the shoulder, heart flutters, a sudden memory popping in—signs from those we’ve lost, reminding us that while their bodies are gone, their love, their essence, their knowing still linger in the quiet corners of our lives.

This isn’t goodbye. It’s just a goodbye for now. Because the relationship doesn’t end—it just changes. I still talk to them. I still hear them. I still feel them near me. Healing doesn’t mean you stop missing them. It just means you stop needing the pain to prove they mattered.