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Grief — what it feels like and why there's no right way to do it

Grief is not like anything else. It's not a problem to solve. It's not a disorder to treat. It's not something you do wrong or do well. It's what happens when someone you love dies and your brain and heart have to learn to exist in a world where they're not in it anymore.

People will tell you what grief should feel like. They'll tell you about stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. They'll tell you that you'll feel better after a year. They'll tell you that you should be "getting over it" or "moving on." They'll tell you their own grief stories as if their timeline is the right one. They mean well, but they're wrong. There is no right way to grieve. There is no timeline. There is only what you feel and your slow, messy work of learning to live with it.

What grief feels like

Grief doesn't feel like one thing. It feels like many things, sometimes at the same time, sometimes in waves, sometimes without any clear pattern at all.

It feels like missing someone physically. Like reaching for the phone to call them and then remembering they're gone. Like walking into a room expecting to see them. Like hearing a song and wanting to tell them about it. This physical missing is maybe the most disorienting part. Your body remembers them before your mind catches up to the fact that they're gone.

It feels heavy. Like someone is sitting on your chest. Like you're walking through water. Like the world's gravity increased and everything is harder, moving through a world takes more effort, thinking takes more energy.

It can feel like anger. Anger that they died. Anger that they're not here. Anger that you have to figure out how to live without them. Anger at other people who say the wrong things or who seem to be moving on too quickly or who still have their loved ones. Anger at yourself for things you didn't say or do. Anger is often the feeling people are least prepared for, but it's normal, and it doesn't mean you didn't love the person or that you're a bad person.

It can feel like guilt. Guilt that you didn't spend more time with them. Guilt that you were relieved when they died because their suffering ended. Guilt that you're sometimes distracted or happy when you feel like you should be grieving. Guilt that you can't remember exactly what their voice sounded like. All of this guilt is normal, and almost all of it is misplaced. You were doing the best you could. You don't have to suffer to prove you loved them.

It can feel like numbness. Like you're walking around in a fog. Like things that should hurt don't hurt because you can't feel much of anything. This numbness is protection. Your nervous system is protecting you from feeling everything at once. It won't last forever, but while it's happening it's actually a mercy.

It can feel like overwhelming sadness. Like you'll never smile again. Like the world is darker and smaller and less interesting because they're not in it. Like you'll be sad forever and that's just going to be your life now.

It can feel like loneliness even when you're surrounded by people. These people don't know the person you lost the way you did. They can't replace them. They can't understand. You're alone in this, even when you're not alone.

Different for each person

Everyone grieves differently. Some people cry easily. Some people don't cry at all. Some people throw themselves into activity to avoid thinking. Some people withdraw. Some people want to talk about the person constantly. Some people can't talk about them without falling apart. Some people want company. Some people need solitude. None of this is wrong.

Your grief might look nothing like anyone else's grief. It might look nothing like your own grief from a previous loss. The same person can grieve very differently depending on the circumstances and the timing and what they have going on in the rest of their life.

If people tell you that you should be grieving differently, ignore them. If you feel like you should be grieving differently, try to release that expectation. Grief is not a performance. It's not something anyone else gets to judge.

What hits hardest

The hard moments are often unpredictable. You might be fine for weeks and then something small triggers a wave of grief so intense you can barely breathe.

A song. A smell. A time of day. A holiday. Someone saying their name. A photo you find. A show they used to watch. The absence of a phone call on their birthday. These small things hit hard because they're connected to memory. Your brain suddenly recalls them vividly and your heart suddenly remembers that they're gone.

The ordinary moments are often harder than the big moments. You know Christmas is coming and you can brace yourself for grief. But Tuesday afternoon, when they used to call, and your phone doesn't ring, that hits you without warning. The grocery store where you used to run into them. The restaurant they loved. These ordinary places where they're absent.

Holidays are hard. Birthdays are hard. The first time a season changes. The anniversary of their death. All of these have weight.

But also random Tuesdays. Random moments. You might be fine and then suddenly you're crying in your car because you remember how they laughed at a specific joke.

There is no finish line

People want grief to be time-limited. They want to know when you'll be better. They want to know when they can stop asking how you're doing because you're fine now. People want this not to be true anymore.

But grief doesn't work like that. You don't get over it. You integrate it. You learn to live with it. At some point, which looks different for everyone, the grief is not the largest thing anymore. You have days where you don't think about them. Then you have days where something reminds you and the grief is fresh and intense again.

Years later, something small can still hit you hard. A memory. A thought about something you wish you could have talked to them about. Missing them doesn't get smaller. It just becomes something you live alongside. Like a room you carry with you. Sometimes you're in that room. Sometimes you're in other rooms. But it's always there.

Finding your way through

There is no right way through grief, but there are things that help. Talking to other people who are grieving can help. Not because they'll say the right thing, but because they understand the weight of it. Support groups exist for this. Sometimes a friend who has lost someone is enough.

Therapy can help. Not because there's something wrong with you, but because having someone trained to listen to grief can create space to feel it without judgment.

Writing about the person can help. Taking photos or letters or memories and putting them somewhere. Making something in their honor. There's no specific activity that helps everyone, but many people find that doing something creative or intentional with their grief helps it feel less overwhelming.

Time helps, but not the way people mean when they say it. Time doesn't erase grief. But as time passes, the intensity shifts. The person becomes a memory instead of an absence. The missing is still there, but you're also still there, and gradually, slowly, your life starts to have room for things besides the grief.

You're going to miss them. You're going to have bad days. You're going to cry in unexpected moments. And you're also going to keep living. Both things are true.

How To Help Your Elders is an informational resource for families working through aging and elder care. We are not medical professionals, attorneys, or financial advisors. The information provided here is for educational purposes and should not replace professional consultation. Every family's situation is unique, and rules, costs, and availability vary by location and circumstance.