Grief, Loss, and Mourning

Grief is relentless. When someone you love dies, nothing feels the same.

You suddenly become a distant observer of life. You wonder, “How odd that everyone still goes about their business.” A young couple holds hands as they stroll toward a movie theater; two children dash down the street toward a leafy playground; a businessman anxiously rants on his cell phone while checking his wristwatch.

Life may be the same for them—but it isn’t for you. Grief colors everything. 

I recently attended a memorial for a favorite relative. Aunt Dotty was quick with a smile and gentle words of encouragement. For as long as I could remember, she was my most enthusiastic cheerleader and dedicated editor of my writing. I snail-mailed her essays for school, my grad school application, and the first draft of my parenting book. Two or three weeks later, her comments arrived in the mail with scribbles in the margins:

• “Strong intro! I’m hooked!”
• “Lovely image! Give me more!”
• “Powerful! Don’t rush. Take your time!”

There was such energy, kindness, and thoughtfulness in her notes.

When my cousin phoned and told me Aunt Dotty passed away, I wondered if I had been in denial. Did I think she would live forever? After all, she was 90 years old and had health problems.

“But she was still active,” I argued with myself. “She and her husband Bob published a book last year (What Great Trainers Do). She was exercising. She even sent out Aunt Dotty newsletters!”

When I received the news, I remember falling back in my chair in my office, pulling off my eyeglasses, and crying. That night after work, when I walked home, the streets of Manhattan never seemed gloomier. I paused under street lamps, sat on benches, and wiped my tears. It took forever to walk home that night.

Grief is a powerful encounter. No matter how prepared we are for loss—we’re not.

Losing someone we love is a gut punch. It takes the air out of us. Suddenly, mortality knocks on our door, and we realize how vulnerable we are. The curtain of denial falls, and we’re forced to recognize that there are no guarantees in life; we may plan and hope for our future, but nothing is assured. (See “Healing Emotional Pain: When Life Crushes You.”)

For me, grief is a time for reflection—a time to reconsider my choices and realign my priorities.

It fills me with questions:

• Am I spending too much time away from home?
• Do I tell my family that I love them enough?
• Am I too task-focused when I should be more relationship-focused?

Good grief, these are important questions!

So here’s what loss has taught me: Don’t ignore your grief. Don’t rush back to work and put your blinders on. Take time, honor it, embrace it. Let the tears flow. Don’t hold back or be ashamed. Mourning is an essential part of life; it awakens us, gives us pause, and forces us to stop and reconsider our very way of being.

Make time and space for grief. Write a letter, call a friend, jot down notes in a journal. Such tasks will do more than bring you comfort; they will open the door to a more meaningful existence. After all, grief is the ultimate annihilator of petty concerns. When honored and processed, it can cause profound changes and shifts. We may forgive an old grudge, reconnect with a distant friend, or value our time with loved ones more.

Do I miss Aunt Dotty? Every day. Even as I type these words, sadness tugs at me. She’s gone, but she lives in my heart. I feel her kindness and thoughtfulness every time I sit down to write. I find myself embracing others with the same kindness and thoughtfulness she taught me.

I’m sure this pleases Aunt Dotty. I imagine her sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea at her side and writing in the margins of my life, “Well done! Keep developing!”