Grief
July 6, 2025
Refined July 21, 2025
It’s much easier to put things out whenever the topic or experience I write about is in retrospect. Once I’ve made peace with it. Once it’s in the past: processed, packaged, and tucked neatly on a shelf. But this? Grief? Unfortunately, or maybe in a weird way, fortunately, this is something I am still trying to navigate. (Fortunately because maybe that makes this more relatable. After all, no one relates to perfection, to neatly tucked, aesthetically pleasing life content) So, I am here to write about the ever-so-present, ever-changing process of grief.
Part of me feels quite unqualified to be writing about this, as grieving someone who isn’t dead is such a strange thing to experience. That may be blunt. And part of me feels extreme for describing how I am processing through the loss of someone as grief because, again, they are very much alive. So, as I digress, I will try to mitigate my feelings for a moment of maybe feeling uncertain or highly unqualified to write about what it is like to grieve and how to cope with grief.
Like I said, grieving someone who isn’t dead is strange. Really strange.
And, this might sound cynical or even blunt, but sometimes there’s a temptation to think it might almost be easier if they were. Not because you actually want them to be gone, but because then at least the grief would make more sense. It would have a name. A ceremony. A defined space in which it feels as though it’s allowed to exist.
But when there’s no funeral, just (I’ve learned just is not a great word to use as it’s minimizing but this is the thought here) a loss of relationship, of opportunity, of connection, of perspective, of trust, of forgiveness, it becomes harder to explain. Harder to justify. You tell yourself, Well, nobody died, so why do I feel this way?
Still, something did die. Maybe not physically, but something real, nonetheless. And learning to honor that figurative death has been crucial for me in giving myself the grace and space to feel deep, hard emotions and the space to let those feelings be heard, without guilt.
But when someone is still alive, the grief feels invisible. And guilt and confusion sneak in with their cruel commentary:
“Just call them, they’re still here.” “Why would you not talk to them after all this time” “You’re wasting potential” “You were not raised like this” “You’re killing them with your distance” “They’ve done all they can do to love and support you and this is what you do to repay them?” “I would kill to have an opportunity to speak to ___ if they were still alive, and look at you.”
Guilt tries to be the loudest in the room. But grief still speaks, and I’m learning to listen in.
Sometimes, you are walking around, enjoying a nice, breezy, perfectly sunny day and for some reason, tears accompany you. Odd reason, must be, because why would I be crying randomly on a Tuesday when it’s a beautiful day out and my day has been going pretty well! My work has been done. I feel as if I have no stress yet. At least, nothing too crazy. But I am sad. What brings me comfort in this moment is not negating feelings as stupid or for no reason, but for the reason of grief.
Someone told me that when we do not allow our minds to process something, our bodies start to process it for us. Sometimes this can look like ‘random’ anxiety, an attack, your body shaking, and shutting down. It is kind of wild to think about. There have been many times where I have ran out of steam without realizing, and soon enough, my body would let me know, whether I would want it to or not. Our bodies remember what our hearts are afraid to face or what our conscious minds avoid.
Grieving someone who isn’t dead is complicated. You’re constantly reminded that they could still be in your life, and maybe that’s what makes it so painful. There’s a haunting potential of what could’ve been. A longing that loops on repeat.
One day, you’re watching a movie, enjoying it and appreciating how well-produced it is, and in the next moment, you’re in tears because the characters move you and then in just one more moment those sad-for-the-character-but-appreciative tears turn to true sadness and a feeling of loss because you connect the situation in the movie somehow to the loss you feel in real life. And then you feel silly for crying real tears over this movie where you have no idea who the characters are in real life. Yes, you feel a little silly and ridiculous and dramatic because why in your mind would you be so consumed that this is about you when it’s just about a funny little movie plot you self-centered being but, than again, that’s what producers create it for, to create emotional ties to characters and tie back to your real life, right?
Grief is unpredictable. Sometimes, it really comes out of nowhere. It doesn’t knock or ask permission to enter the house of my mind. It just walks right in.
Sometimes the smallest things can trigger the biggest reactions. The thought spiral of what could’ve been, what might still be, what could be… it can be a lot to carry.
But, there is an anchor that I hold onto: Jesus deeply understands grief. And the beautiful truth is that there is resurrection power in the name of Jesus. And that power extends beyond just physical death. It reaches into the death of connection, of hope, of dreams, of relationships. Even if something has died, even if it feels impossible to restore or too broken to heal, He has the power to redeem. When all hope feels lost, we can anchor ourselves to the ultimate Hope: the hope of eternal life, the hope that He can breathe life into even the most lifeless places.
In the same breath, this doesn’t mean the hurt and pain disappear. It doesn’t mean I don’t still feel the sting or wrestle with the unknowns. But it does mean I don’t grieve without hope.
And bibical grief is necessary. We are not to dwell on our feelings, in our emotions, but we are called to acknowledge and move through them and feel through them, ultimately giving them to God because he can and he wants to take it all. Biblical grief is about acknowledging what’s been lost and trusting that healing is still possible.
So, what does it look like to grieve someone who is still alive? What does it look like to love somebody from a distance? What does it look like to love and forgive? To love fully while guarding your heart wisely? To cope with the longing you may have for a relationship that once was while still trusting God with what will be? And how does this all differ between the grief of a best friend, a loved one, a family member, … ?
I don’t have answers to all of that. These are the questions I still sit with.
And this is where I go, Lord, help me. Please. I trust you. I cannot get through it alone. I am scared for what this will look like if I have already been struggling with this for so long. But I have no fear in Christ! And I call on the promise of healing and redemption that you hold and that you have for me!
He sees us. He deeply understands us. He hurts and grieves with us. And he deeply desires, more deeply than we could desire, healing, redemption, and resurrection. He promises this for us, and he calls on us to trust in him above all.
