Grief: Year 4
When I became a therapist, I never expected grief to become a cornerstone of my work—let alone that I’d become an expert in loss through firsthand experience. Four years later, I’m still piecing together what it means to live with it—not just the loss of my dad, but the loss of the life I thought I was building. Grief is a strange companion. At first, it storms in, consuming everything in its path, leaving no space for anything else. Over time, it gets quieter, retreating to the edges of your life, but never fully leaving. It lingers in the in-between moments, waiting to surface when you least expect it—a song, a scent, a familiar turn of phrase—and suddenly, you’re back in its grip, reminded of all that’s gone.
There were moments in those early days when I felt like I was completely unraveling. Grief stripped me down to the core, leaving every wound exposed. But in the process, it also forced me to look at myself in a way I never had before. It pushed me to ask the hard questions: Who am I when everything I thought I knew is gone? What kind of life do I want to rebuild from the ashes? It took me a while to even get to a place to ask those sorts of questions, and I didn't have the answers right away. I still don’t have all of them to be completely candid. But what I do have is a deeper understanding of resilience—not the kind that looks polished and triumphant, but the kind that quietly grows in the cracks of your broken heart.
I was living and working in New Zealand when we got the call that my dad had passed away suddenly from a massive heart attack at the age of 55. Traveling from New Zealand wasn’t easy in 2021, and those last few days are a blur. But one moment stands out with perfect clarity—my boyfriend looking me in the eyes, promising he would come and help me through it. I boarded that flight across the world alone, believing him. But that promise? It was empty. He never showed up. He let me carry the weight of my grief alone, proving with his absence what his words never could.
And just months later, when I was still shocked and staggering under the weight of losing my dad, he walked away for good. Five years together, and when it mattered most, he chose himself. It wasn’t just a breakup; it was another door slamming shut when I was already standing in the wreckage. Losing two of the most important people in my life so close together changed me—but not in the way he might have thought. Because if his absence taught me anything, it’s that I never needed him to survive this in the first place. I did that on my own.
For a while, I let these events harden me. I let the hurt dim my light, and I wondered if I would ever find my way back to myself. But eventually, I realized that while I couldn’t change what had happened to me, I could decide how I wanted to respond. I could let these experiences define me, or I could use them as a catalyst for growth. Slowly but surely, I chose the latter.
So I started small. I found a therapist that I felt comfortable with and grew to absolutely love. I went back to the basics and forced myself to revisit the things I knew I once enjoyed. I leaned into my yoga practice, not just as a way to move my body, but as a way to process emotions that words couldn’t touch. I let music and dance become an outlet too, rediscovering the way a song could lift me out of the heaviest moments, even if just for a little while. Sometimes I would close the door, turn the volume up, and let my body move however it needed to, letting the rhythm shake loose feelings I couldn’t name. Music helped me reconnect to joy, even when it felt far away, and dance reminded me that I could still find lightness, even when my heart felt so heavy. I journaled, even when it felt like all I could write about was the ache in my chest. I let myself cry when I needed to, scream when I needed to, and sit in silence when there was nothing else to do. Slowly but surely, I began to reclaim pieces of myself. And maybe that’s the greatest gift I’ve given myself through it all—the space to keep telling my own story, even when it felt fractured, and to let love, joy, and movement slowly fill the cracks. It’s a funny thing, feeling like you’ve “lost it all,” because now you have nothing else left to lose— only the world to gain.
This past year has taught me so much about what healing really looks like. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It’s messy and unpredictable, and some days feel like you’re back at the beginning. But I’ve also learned that you don’t have to be fully healed to show up—as a good friend, a loving partner, a compassionate coworker, or a strong leader. Showing up isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence. It’s about being willing to hold space for others even when you’re still holding space for your own pain. And just as importantly, it’s about showing up for yourself. It’s about practicing self-love, even when it feels awkward or undeserved, and learning to treat yourself with the same kindness and care you so easily offer others. Because the relationship you have with yourself sets the tone for every other connection in your life.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand…
If humanity had a universal language, it would be grief. People are grieving all the time—mourning loved ones, lost dreams, jobs, health struggles, or the futures they once imagined for themselves. And if grief is the language that everyone must learn at some point, then maybe we can choose to speak it with an accent of hope. Instead of saying, “I’m sorry for your loss,” what if we asked, “Can you tell me a story about them?” Because every grief story isn’t really a grief story—it’s a love story. I once heard someone describe grief as “all the love you want to give but can’t”. That really stuck with me and got me thinking. What if grief really is love with no place to go? Then maybe, the greatest gift we can give one another is the space to tell those stories, to keep the love alive even in the shadow of loss.
Grief changes you. It strips away the versions of yourself you once knew and forces you to rebuild, piece by piece. Some people will understand that, and some won’t. Some will walk away because they don’t know how to hold space for the person you’re becoming. Others will stay, meeting you in your darkest moments and growing alongside you. And that’s exactly what happens—you grow. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright ugly, but the growing pains are worth it. One day, you’ll look back and realize you’ve become someone your younger self would be proud of.
And here’s the truth: the people who chose to leave your life don’t deserve access to the person you’re becoming. The version of you standing here today—the version that has done the hard work of healing, growing, and learning—was built in the fire they walked away from. They made their choice, and while you may find it in yourself to forgive, know that they forfeited the privilege of witnessing this new and healed version of you. And there is so much peace in that. Because as you grow, people will flow in and out of your life. The ones meant to stay will stay, and the ones who leave were never meant to witness who you were becoming in the first place.
As I stand here in Year 4, I see grief for what it really is: a teacher. It’s taught me about impermanence, about how nothing in this life is guaranteed—not even the next moment. It’s taught me about love, about how precious it is to show up fully for the people who matter, even if it feels vulnerable or scary. It’s taught me that growth is not linear, and that strength doesn’t mean being unbreakable—it means being able to rebuild when life breaks you. And most importantly, it’s taught me that healing and wholeness can coexist with hurt.
Do I still feel the weight of what happened? Absolutely. There are days when I miss my dad so much it feels like I can’t breathe. Grief still finds me in unexpected moments—an anniversary, a birthday, a song, a scent, a familiar phrase—and for a brief second, it’s like no time has passed at all. But I don’t live in those feelings anymore. They visit, and then they leave, like waves lapping against the shore.
I hope that wherever you are in your own journey with grief—whether it’s Year 4 or Day 4—you can find some glimmer of hope in the darkness. Healing isn’t about erasing the pain or pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s about learning to carry it with grace, to let it shape you without breaking you.
And if you’re wondering if you’ll ever feel like yourself again, let me tell you this: You won’t. You’ll feel like someone new—someone who has lived through the fire and come out stronger on the other side. And that person, my friend, is worth every tear, every ache, and every ounce of effort it takes to get there.
Here’s to moving forward—not perfectly, not painlessly, but with purpose.