Words of Advice for Coping with Grief and Loss

To be human is to confront mortality, yet death is a profoundly unsettling prospect that few people accept with total peace. Some losses seem unfathomable — such as the death of a parent, child, or best friend — but it is beyond our control who Death takes; we can only allow ourselves the time and self-compassion to grieve as we are constantly propelled forward in time, into a future without the deceased.

Bereavement is a topic that hits especially close to home for me. About a year after I graduated from university, when I was 23 years old, my mother suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from an acute health condition that was easily preventable (dehydration and a resulting electrolyte imbalance after the onset of a severe migraine). I had always enjoyed an especially close relationship with my mom, who had been my best friend. The loss was personally devastating and life-altering. It has now been nearly five years since her passing; but even so, significant losses like the death of a family member ripple through our lives, indelibly shaping our identities, worldview, and the choices we make moving forward. I’ve put together some pieces of advice I would share with anyone who has lost a close family member or very dear friend. While there is no single or “correct” way to mourn, I hope my comments can offer solace and insight to those who seek healing during the throes of grief.

1. Allow yourself to grieve.

The strategy of bottling up one’s feelings by adopting a “stiff upper lip” persona inevitably cracks at some point; it is not a sustainable long-term solution to the agony of loss. Neither is numbing one’s pain with substances. Grief is pernicious like that — it must be permitted to run its course. If the expression of grief is somehow suppressed or avoided, the painful emotions that were never allowed to surface will inevitably manifest in some other, uglier form later on in life.

That said, because there are as many reactions to death as there are people, it is best to resist the tendency to judge someone’s style of grief. The woman who doesn’t cry at a funeral may be the same person who regularly cries herself to sleep missing the deceased months or years later, after others appear to have “moved on.” Similarly, the widower who never speaks about his late wife has not necessarily forgotten her. Some people find tremendous consolation in faith while others find little or no meaning in it and prefer not to rely on religion as a coping mechanism. People who have experienced loss should not be made to feel defensive about how they behave in this uncharted emotional territory; there is no right or wrong.

Various mental health professionals have, however, attempted to make sense of the grieving process through theoretical speculation. Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross postulates in her book Death and Dying (1969) that there exist five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance (DABDA). Kübler-Ross’s grief model was originally intended to describe the emotional progression of the terminally ill during the final phase of life, but it has since been recontextualized to delineate the stages of grief for the bereaved. As Kübler-Ross noted later in her career (and as those who have felt the heartbreak of loss know all too well), the stages of grief are frequently non-linear and can be experienced in any order. They can occur seemingly sporadically many years after a death, evoked by specific events or by life milestones that summon thoughts and memories of the deceased. People who have lost parents, for example, might find that their sadness is “reactivated” when they graduate from university, get married, or have their first child — even joyous life achievements can trigger additional cycles of grief by inducing a yearning for the one who has died.

Denial, anger, depression, and acceptance are somewhat self-explanatory and easily researched, but the concept of “bargaining” is less straightforward. Bargaining can manifest in a variety of ways, but it is frequently accompanied by guilt. It often involves attempts to negotiate with a higher power, thoughts of regret, or daydreams of alternate realities. Even though bargains are ultimately futile — similar to playing a mind game that can never be won — they can be a step toward acceptance. They sometimes take the form of hypothetical deals — e.g. “I would have given my life for her” or “Couldn’t God have taken [someone else] instead of him?” For the metaphysically inclined and abstract-minded, a form of bargaining coupled with denial can be used to tell oneself that in another world — perhaps on another timeline or in a different, better reality — the deceased is alive and well. Childlike as these fantasies may seem, they are not necessarily indicative of emotional regression or unhealthy coping.

The rich range of emotional responses encompassed by DABDA are very commonly experienced as survivors face the challenge of fully integrating the permanence of the loss within their existing conceptual framework of reality. They are sometimes left stupefied as they grapple with the apparent senselessness of deaths that seem unnecessary or avoidable. Mourners are ultimately given no choice but to forge a new life without the deceased, grieving both the individual and the vision they had once maintained of the future.

In his book Grief Counseling and Grief Therapy (2018), psychologist J. William Worden posits four “tasks of mourning,” which some people prefer to Kübler-Ross’s DABDA model. These tasks include the following:

1. Accepting the reality of the loss
2. Working through the pain of grief
3. Adjusting to an environment in which the deceased is missing
4. Finding an enduring connection with the deceased while embarking on a new life

Worden’s model has a stronger emphasis on both practically adapting to one’s new life circumstances and reframing some aspect of the lost person in a positive, salutary light (ideas which will be touched on later in this post.) Hope Edelman, author of Motherless Daughters (2014), introduces a model even more streamlined than Worden’s: a cycle of “feeling bad” vs. “feeling better.” Clearly grief is an ongoing, at times messy process no matter which model is considered. A major takeaway from each of these paradigms of grief is that pain must be accepted and endured in order for healing to occur.

2. Receive support from others.

After my mom died, I remember feeling moved by the outpouring of support I received from friends, neighbors, old classmates, and even casual acquaintances. A thoughtful neighbor brought my family dinner for several nights; my sister’s friends helped to plan the funeral reception; an old family friend drafted my mother’s obituary; my ex-boyfriend flew to California from the UK to offer emotional support; and my family received an abundance of sympathy cards and messages on social media from friends expressing their condolences. I felt a kind of kinship with others who had lost parents at young ages, including an uncle who lost his father at 24 in a car accident, a former university classmate who reached out to tell me that she lost her mom at the age of 16, and a receptionist at my doctor’s office who told me that she had similarly lost her mom too early (it was she who recommended the book Motherless Daughters, which has been a helpful resource).

Losing a special person through death can evoke intense feelings of isolation coupled with profound emotional pain, which is why receiving words and gestures of support can be so invaluable when we reach our lowest points. Sometimes it’s not so much about what those around us say; it’s more about the fact that they care enough to listen. They are willing to hear sad things and put themselves in uncomfortable positions for the sake of being there for us in our time of need.

I had been going through an especially challenging transition period in the months prior to my mother’s passing and was already in regular contact with a therapist when my mother died. It’s difficult to overemphasize the benefits I received from sessions with my therapist. On the evening of my mother’s death, I was the only one with my mom (prior to the arrival of emergency medical personnel at our home). The circumstances surrounding her passing were a source of personal trauma that needed to be talked out and worked through over an extended period of time.

However, even if the mourner did not directly witness the events leading up to the death or the death itself, there most often exists a host of emotional and practical issues alike that can be constructively processed with a mental health professional. In addition, regular sessions with a therapist, counselor, or psychologist have the added benefit of providing structure to one’s life during a period in which time can seem distorted. Therapy should never be regarded as a sign of weakness, an indicator of an inability to cope, or a self-indulgent act; seeking help is instead a hallmark of courage and resilience as the client addresses some of life’s toughest predicaments headfirst.

3. Don’t take others’ responses to heart.

Everyone grieves differently, even when mourning the loss of the same person. A sad yet frequently overlooked reality of death is that when the deceased are gone, they are suddenly unable to speak for themselves or control their own life narratives. Other people bring the dead into the present by constructing narratives about who they were — this may include explanations of why they died, assessments of their personalities, interpretations of their actions, and conjectures about how they would think and behave if they were still alive. The deceased are thus made into objects of subjective speculation.

Furthermore, people sometimes work through grief by opening up conversations about certain (again, largely subjective) aspects that they remember about the departed. If their relationship with the deceased was quite different from your relationship with the deceased — or even if they simply have a different personality style to your own — they may speak about your friend or family member in a way that is puzzling, or even angering, to you. In other words, other people’s attempt to process the loss by talking about the deceased can be difficult to hear if it conflicts with your own mental conception of what the person was like.

Thinking back, I can recall many things that family members and friends said about my mother that caused me great anger and frustration. One person, within minutes of my mom’s passing, began to speculate about how emotional stress could have led to her death, which came across to me as essentially blaming my mother for not surviving. Another person actually made jokes about her death on the way home from the hospital before assigning personal blame to me, which damaged our relationship. A family friend suggested (with no factual basis, I might add) that my mother had secretly been suffering from a terminal illness that she had concealed from us — an idea that, if true, would have amounted to a devastating betrayal. Even though I (and the pathologist who performed the autopsy) knew this wasn’t the case, the thought was sickening.

I can say with assurance that others’ immediate responses should not be taken to heart or over-analyzed (which, I realize, is much easier said than done). This is a time when the pain and shock are so fresh for both you and others, people may think out loud and barely realize the implications of the sentiments they utter. Words that feel soul-destroying to you may be little more than nonsensical musings spoken as they work through the tragic event. However, having said that, it is natural to feel upset when others act in ways that appear particularly callous or offensive. So if you do find yourself seething with anger or recoiling from a particularly thoughtless remark, it’s all right: You have a right to feel that way, especially during this psychologically turbulent time. Do ask yourself, though, how much power you want to give others over your own grief. The words of other people cannot change the special times you shared with the person who is gone. The memories you cherish will forever be yours, sealed in time, and no one has the right to tarnish them.

On a related note, even people who themselves were not particularly impacted by the loss can have off-beat or irksome reactions that shouldn’t be overthought. Unfortunately, I’ve found that many people simply don’t know how to respond to death. It is an uncomfortable and socially awkward topic and thankfully isn’t an issue that most people have to confront on a daily basis. A conundrum that friends and acquaintances face right off the bat is whether to bring up the death as a topic of conversation: Is it more polite not to mention it, or does ignoring the elephant in the room give the impression that they don’t care? There is no correct answer here, as it depends on several factors, including the nature of their relationship with the bereaved, what they intend to say about the loss, how long it has been since the death, how many times they have already discussed it with the mourner, the context of the conversation, etc.

I can remember once being obviously ignored by a former classmate’s parent I ran into at a local shopping center a few short months after my mom died. Of course, I took it personally and felt further alienated, but I think this general kind of reaction probably says more about the other person not wanting to feel socially uncomfortable than it does about the mourner. The bereaved, meanwhile, often assume the burden of managing their own emotions as well as those of the people around them, feeling self-conscious or guilty at the prospect of being an emotional drain to others. They can — perhaps paradoxically — be sensitive to perceived slights while being irritated at the prospect of others “feeling sorry” for them through emotional overinvestment. These mixed feelings add a new layer of confusion to an already challenging time.

In addition — even if said with good intentions — I’ve personally found sentiments involving privileged supernatural knowledge of the dead to be troubling (e.g. “I feel your mother’s presence here” or “I know your mother is with you, watching over you”) along with certain statements that involve a person speaking for the alleged wishes of the dead (e.g. “Your mother would have wanted for you to do things this way”). Not everyone has the same worldview or religious beliefs associated with the afterlife, so a comment that one person may find heartfelt and reassuring another may take umbrage at, feeling the speaker has crossed a line.

This collision of value systems can generate interpersonal as well as intrapersonal conflict. Believe it or not, a PhD-educated biologist and physicist I once briefly knew speculated that he might be able to figure out a way to travel back in time to bring my mother back from the dead. I guess I can see how this notion was intended to be romantic and comforting, but I found it to be grossly inappropriate and, moreover, deeply chilling. I’ve also had more superstitiously inclined individuals tell me they have encountered the ghosts of both my late mother and grandfather. I couldn’t help but find these purported visitations to be offensive as well as disrespectful since they transformed flesh-and-blood people I knew and loved into objects of fantasy; these were real members of my family I saw dead in funeral homes, not characters in ghost stories for people who barely knew them.

However, it’s important to bear in mind that even comments such as these that make your blood boil or that appear to border on the delusional are probably not intended to cause you further hurt. At any rate, flying into a rage probably won’t bring you any more comfort than will acknowledging that some people need to invent stories in order to maintain the illusion of control in a chaotic world.

So where does this all leave us? Well, close to the time of death, it’s generally a good idea for friends and acquaintances of the bereaved to express their condolences, say something warm and affirming about the deceased, and (if they are close to the mourner) let the bereaved know that they are there for them if they want to talk about it. The person in mourning, meanwhile, should be cognizant of the social ineptness of people in the face of death, consciously resisting the tendency to personalize others’ reactions. However, having said that, if there is someone who has unambiguously abandoned you or intentionally caused you further emotional distress during this sensitive period, perhaps it is time to rethink whether that person is worthy of your time and friendship. For better or for worse, our darkest moments can help us to realize who our true friends really are.

4. Be patient with yourself as you practice good physical and emotional self-care.

It can be all too easy to neglect one’s own self-care when wracked with the pains of loss, especially if the loss was traumatic or if the grieving process has been complicated by other factors (e.g. guilt, self-blame, a volatile relationship with the deceased, etc.). Chances are, though, that the person who passed would want for you to go on living a full and happy life. Keeping busy, staying in touch with supportive friends and family members, continuing regular beauty/leisure activities, and keeping on top of your physical health are all vital.

Self-care, however, doesn’t just mean continuing to shower, brush one’s teeth, and eat nutritious food (although these are, of course, very important!). One critical, often overlooked aspect of self-care is emotional self-care, which ties into my first point about allowing oneself the time and patience to grieve. One thing that became very apparent to me after I lost my mom was how reality suddenly took on a strange, surreal quality, which manifested in several ways of thinking that were unique to the grieving process. I will address some of these patterns of thought here in case they resonate with others and help to normalize the experience.

Bereavement launched me into a state of mind in which the fabric of reality — that is, the cognitions that create our conscious experience — seemed curiously altered. It’s not unusual for otherwise rationally-thinking adults to be perplexed at how the sun can still rise and set after their loved ones have passed or how other people can smile and laugh and be happy while they themselves are in such indescribable pain; the inexorable constancy of the physical universe is saddening, infuriating, and comforting all at once in its total apathy toward human suffering.

Most of us spend our lives conceptualizing death in the abstract, even romanticizing it, until a loss jars us and we realize what it truly means to lose someone forever in an instant. I remember some part of me lamenting the simple passing of time in the months and years after my mom’s death. Sometimes I still do. This is because — somewhere deep in my irrational psyche — I felt that moving forward temporally was pulling my mother farther away from me by creating an even bigger gap between my world and the world that my mother and I once inhabited together. As I embraced new technology, kept up with current political affairs, celebrated life milestones as an adult, and grew older in general, I couldn’t help but think, “If she came back, would she recognize me? What if the world and I have changed too much?” While part of me wanted to forget that anything bad had ever happened and start a new life as a new person, another part desperately wanted for things to stay the same as they had been when I was 23 and just learning how to be a grown woman. Since it was impossible to purge my thoughts and censor my memory, there was a constant struggle between peering back and looking ahead.

This brings me to another point: how death can alter one’s perception of time. My internal clock suddenly centered on May 24, 2014 — the day my mother died. Everything was either before or after that pivotal moment. In some ways, I felt like a different person after the loss, or perhaps merely the same person who had lived two lives. According to Edelman’s book, it’s not uncommon for the bereaved to think according to a new timeline in which anything prior to the death is analogous to “BC” and anything succeeding the death is analogous to “AD.” This mental bifurcation of time really resonated with me.

Furthermore, it is worth remembering that — for the mourner who was physically present at the scene of death or dying — that day might not be neatly confined within a span of hours; the traumatic past may be relived a thousand times, projected in the mind like a film on repeat. It may be imprinted as a living memory that continues to reach out and have a direct impact on the present day. My short-term memory, meanwhile, was shot, and it was difficult to sustain concentration, even on simple tasks. Temporal and cognitive distortions such as these can make the grieving process especially difficult and require plenty of self-patience (and oftentimes therapy) to process.

In addition, my mother’s death acted as a kind of mental backdrop for most of my thoughts, a baseline mode of despair and disbelief that lasted for several months. Even after the initial shock wore off, I felt the experience had changed me. A woman interviewed in Edelman’s book remarked that whenever she met someone new after the untimely death of her mother, she felt like the fact that she lost her mom was a core aspect of her identity that largely defined her as a person. She felt she should tell people she was motherless immediately after meeting them. I can relate, as I’m sure can many others who have faced similar life-changing losses.

All of these phenomena pertaining to the psyche of the bereaved point to a central truth: The people we love most in life create our subjective experience of reality; so losing them is not just losing an individual but is losing the world we once knew. These special people also help to shape our identities, meaning that when they die, a part of us dies, too. As Worden’s tasks of mourning emphasize, part of grief is learning how to function again, how to create a “new normal.” In the early phases of bereavement, this can mean focusing on surviving the minute… then the hour… then the day. Modest goals must be set and achieved when the totality of the loss is too much to bear at once.

Almost five years out, I’m still unsure if I’ve fully comprehended what forever without my mom means. At any rate, I’ve never shied away from the realization that I have no choice but to move forward in life — which, as I’ve stressed, requires plenty of patience with the self as the healing process gradually unfolds.

5. Learn from the deceased and from the experience of grief.

The ache of loss can obscure objective thinking, so it can sometimes be tough to use death as an opportunity to learn. The dead, though, can teach us all sorts of lessons. Perhaps the most obvious are those pieces of wisdom they passed on while still alive, whether they be sayings, anecdotes, autobiographical stories, or words of advice. These tidbits of knowledge could be seen as parts of them that transcend death; the act of remembering can keep someone alive (think Disney-Pixar’s Coco). I won’t ever forget my mother’s words about humility, generosity, gratitude, and kindness to good people who are struggling.

Other kinds of lessons to be learned from the dead require us to take a step back and examine how they lived their lives. We must draw inferences and conclusions based on their choices and life circumstances, almost as though analyzing characters in a fictional story. A young man may have learned from his late father that hard work and ambition could enable him to create a better life for himself. A young woman may have discovered the importance of choosing a husband wisely, unlike her deceased mother. And someone else may have learned from his best friend who passed too early the importance of prioritizing human relationships above material measures of success. The dead would want for us to learn from them — from both their successes and mistakes — so that our lives can be richer, more fulfilling, and more congruent with our values.

Death can also throw light on the nature of personal relationships. One thing I realized after the death of my mother was that adversity can bond people like nothing else. It can additionally help us to separate true friends from fair-weather friends. A true friend doesn’t shy away from your company when you are hurting. Even though there is nothing they can say to change the reality of the situation, they offer a patient, listening ear and a shoulder to cry on.

On a broader level, I am a strong believer in the notion that adversity breeds greater sensitivity and compassion for others. Although I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, the depth of suffering that accompanies bereavement cultivates wisdom, resilience, and authenticity. Personal loss can be paradoxical. In some ways, the mourner feels weak, vulnerable, and utterly alone; but this level of suffering forges a survivor.

After my mother’s death, I felt both broken and invincible — broken due to a constant void but invincible because I had lost the person I loved most in life and had survived. I lived on to accomplish more things and love new people. I learned not to take the special people in my life for granted and to cherish my time with them.

However, as a regular visitor to the cemetery (who, might I add, was the owner of her very own cemetery plot by age 24), I was left with a keen and constant awareness of mortality. But while I often found myself contemplating the sad fragility of human life, I at the same time more greatly valued life, regarding it as more precious and sacred since I had witnessed firsthand the profound ugliness of death. And although I felt a pervasive sense of isolation, I felt in the same moment a burgeoning sense of independence and self-reliance. I perceived the freedom to begin a new, second life less bound by normalcy and convention and free to carve out my mature identity on my own terms.

6. Honor the deceased.

Immediately after someone passes away, there are several components of the funeral and burial process that can bring loved ones greater closure. After my mother’s death, I made sure that she had her own, single-level plot at the cemetery in which her family was interred along with her own headstone (in her specific situation, a single headstone seemed more appropriate than a shared one, but others may prefer to have one per married couple). I also took steps to ensure that, in the coming decades, she would not be the only member of our family buried in that specific section of the cemetery — I didn’t want for her to be alone. Over the next few months, it was very important for me to dedicate ample time and energy to designing the headstone, customizing it so that it suited her personality. The epitaph was chosen carefully: “Nurturing mother, loving wife, and devoted daughter whose generous heart spread love, beauty, and life to all she knew.” Having a sentiment inscribed on my mother’s headstone that so wonderfully encapsulated her spirit was a meaningful way of commemorating her.

Right after someone passes, there are a myriad of time-sensitive executive tasks that must be completed, things that keep the family and close friends of the deceased busy. I remember feeling like I was running a marathon up until the funeral (which in some ways was beneficial because it allowed me to pace myself as I took in the finality of the death). In our situation, an autopsy was warranted. I would recommend an autopsy for anyone whose death was sudden and mysterious because it could be helpful in determining health conditions that run in the family and can provide greater closure to loved ones. The family must also consider whether to embalm and view the body of the deceased. This is a deeply personal decision influenced by a variety of factors from the cause of death to whether there was a chance for the family members to say goodbye. I was the only one who chose to do so, and overall, I think it was the right choice. I knew that what I saw — the matter before me that bore some semblance of my mother; the chest that I, for a few deceptive moments, swore I could see gently rising and falling — was not really her and that my mother was gone. It was only an empty shell of a person. I knew then that my mother wasn’t coming back.

When my sister and I decided how to dress the body for internment, we chose a yellow gold and diamond heart necklace that was a twin to the rose gold and diamond necklace my mother had given me as a Valentine’s Day gift that year. We also included family photos and letters we wrote to her as grave goods. Gestures like these can impart comfort to those in mourning.

Speaking at my mother’s funeral was perhaps the most personally impactful opportunity I had to celebrate the life of my mother in the immediate aftermath of her death. Even though I’ve had an intense and primal fear of public speaking after a bad experience as a kid, I felt it was my duty to prepare some words honoring the beautiful human being she was. Delivering my mother’s eulogy was deeply gratifying, as I knew that my words had touched the audience. The positive feedback I received from funeral attendees afterwards reassured me that I had done my part by offering a moving tribute with words spoken from the heart. In addition, a well-written obituary is another way of publicly memorializing the departed, and in a medium that lasts for many years.

Now to go back to Worden. The final point of his model of grief emphasizes that finding an “enduring connection with the deceased” while starting a new life can facilitate healing and personal growth. This phenomenon essentially involves cognitively reframing the loss so that the dead become a powerful, life-affirming force acting in the present day. Far from being a pit of despair within our psyches, departed loved ones are revivified on some metaphysical level. This process of commemoration begins right after death and continues until they are gone from living memory.

For me, an enduring connection with the departed sometimes meant donating to animal charities since my mother had been an exceptionally generous person who had a penchant for helping animals in need. It moved me to think that this gesture both furthered her legacy and created a positive ripple that resulted in the word being a slightly better place than it otherwise would have been. It was comforting for me to think that even though the world had lost my mom, good things were being done in her name and in her memory; I had the power to transform my pain into something constructive that could ease a tiny bit of suffering in the world. I also arranged for my sister and me to have a bench with a commemorative plaque installed at her late father’s shopping center in San Juan Capistrano. Installing a physical memorial like this was very fulfilling, as I knew that those who used the bench would think of her and know that she was loved by her daughters. Moreover, my pregnant sister plans to incorporate our mother’s name into her daughter’s middle name as a way of perpetuating our mother’s legacy. If provided the same opportunity someday, I plan to do the same.

My main takeaway here is that a rich variety of initiatives can offer constructive ways of coping with grief when done with love, providing a deep sense of personal satisfaction that can ease the heartbreak of loss. Gestures of remembrance, far from mere reminders of death, can turn into celebrations of life.

7. Reevaluate life priorities.

The loss of a loved one frequently ushers in a new phase of life. Encounters with death can trigger existential thinking and periods of intense self-examination. They can change individuals by forcing the realization that our time on Earth is limited, and we must therefore strive to live each day mindfully and in accordance with our values. What is truly important to us in life? Money? Success? Influence? Knowledge? Love? Family? Faith? Helping others?

No one can answer this question for you. I will say, though, that I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone who’s old lament that they failed to work harder or make more money. Typical sage advice from the elderly centers on connections with others and enjoying the moment — wishing they had spent more time with family, wishing they had worried less and savored life’s beauties and pleasures more — things like that.

My own life priorities were both altered and refined after the loss of my mother. In high school, I remember being asked by someone if I’d rather be happy or successful in life. I said successful. Although being happy and successful are not mutually exclusive, my response after my mom’s death would have certainly been different. “Success” as how I had formerly defined it was less an arbiter of my happiness than was living in congruence with my values. I began to more thoughtfully evaluate those parts of my life that created personal meaning and fulfillment for me, and I pursued them with vigor.

For one, I went back to university in Scotland to obtain a postgraduate degree even though it was expensive and impractical and would not help me in my career in any direct way. Higher education is something I’ve always deeply valued, and I knew that if I wanted to more fully respect myself, I needed to do this. Ensuring that my actions enable me to like myself by aligning with what’s important to me is essential to my happiness. Were my surviving family members thrilled with my decision? No. But it didn’t matter what others thought. It was my time, my money, my choice. Only one person attended my graduation — my ex-boyfriend from Britain — but I knew that my mother would have been proud of me.

In addition, I began to more fully recognize the sacredness of close loving relationships with others — that is, the power of these relationships to enrich one’s life. I felt that my life lacked love, and I knew it was very important for me to have a partner and best friend with whom I could travel the world and share my life — hence the online dating, the painfully awkward dinners spent in the company of guys who clearly weren’t right for me, and the ongoing search for a loving and supportive boyfriend, now my fiancé (…and of course, there was my disastrous experience with a matchmaker; but that’s another blog post for another, braver day).

I also knew that making a positive impact in the world through helping others was critical to my sense of self-fulfillment, which is why volunteerism became part of my life. I couldn’t help but harbor occasional regret at things I wished I would have done differently to improve my mother’s life; but I could channel feelings like this into bettering the lives of people who were still here, even people I didn’t know. In other words, I could convert inner feelings of guilt and remorse into real action effecting change in the external world. In the process, I discovered that a great way to resist the temptation to feel sorry for oneself is to work with those who are truly in need of help. In addition, I could endeavor never to take for granted the people who are special to me.

In a more general sense, loss shifted my perspective of the daily experience of living — a phenomenon not uncommon for people in similar situations. Even though it’s still a struggle, I try my hardest not to sweat the small things in life and to care less about what others think. If I’m dissatisfied with some aspect of my life, I am more emboldened to take the life risks necessary to change my situation because passivity seems unequivocally worse to me than the potential consequences of failure.

All of these shifts in outlook ultimately enabled me to like and respect myself more through introspection and self-reflection even though the process could be messy and painful. Everyone’s values and life priorities are unique, and loss inspires as many changes as there are people.

Concluding Thoughts

It would be misleading for me or for anyone else to pretend to have the grieving process figured out. I’m not sure that there exists language to describe the agony of loss, let alone posit a solution for it. The bad news about grief is that the pain will never completely go away. There is always a void; there will always be reminders of the deceased; and human beings are irreplaceable — such is the human condition.

But even so, the very depth of loss attests to the power of love. We are composed not only of ourselves, but are unique amalgamations of everyone we have loved since it is these individuals who have molded our identities. These special people have forever left their mark on us, the living. When they are gone, we may be left with dark and empty spaces in our hearts, but it is in those hollow places that we can cultivate new relationships with others and further the causes for which they stood. Remembering and celebrating the lives of the dead might be the closest thing we can grant them to immortality. In this sense, they are always with us through the memories we have of them — frozen in time yet omnipresent, tucked deep within our psyches yet exerting an active influence on the world. The ultimate paradox of grief is that it is through love — the love in which grief is embedded — that we ultimately find peace.