Grief Guide

Grief Guide Grief Guide is a Brisbane/Ipswich-based grief, loss, and bereavement counselling and supervision service run by Ali Mills.

Ali is a Registered Counsellor and Accredited Supervisor with 10+ years experience working with grieving clients.

24/02/2026

This week, my family experienced our own loss; the death of someone we love.

We felt it; that sudden feeling of the rug being pulled from beneath us.
🪷The shock
🪷The heartbreak.
🪷The quiet, disorienting question of what does the world mean now?

It's a strange and tender thing, moving through loss as a grief counsellor. I sit with grief every day in my work. I know the theories. I've heard countless stories. I've carried my own losses before this one.

And yet, I also know that every loss is its own. No two people grieve the same way, and each loss, even for the same person, asks something different of us. I know this in my bones, and right now, I am living it.

I know the words that can help when someone is grieving. And yet I found myself messaging family this week with the same honesty I hear from so many of my clients: words fail me too.

I am okay. And I am also not okay. And both of those things are true at once.

I am a human in this work, and that's not a limitation. It's exactly what makes this work meaningful.

I share this not to worry you, but because I think it matters that you know: I am not a robot navigating grief from a distance. There are times I too sit in the rubble. And I also know how to care for myself so I can continue to show up fully for others.

If you're grieving right now, I see you. I am with you in this.

🪷 Please go gently. 🪷

20/02/2026

I have sat where you are sitting.

In the waiting rooms. The two-week waits. The appointments that blur into one another. Showing up to work while quietly falling apart. Hearing pregnancy announcements and greeting new babies, and feeling completely, utterly alone.

I know what it is to grieve a future you didn't even realise you were already planning. To feel the injustice of what your body is doing, and what it won't do. To feel dramatic in your loss because there is nothing visible to point to. No funeral. No casserole at the door. Just you, and your hope, and the unbearable uncertainty of not knowing how this ends.

Fertility treatment asks so much. Your body. Your relationship. Your finances. Your heart. And somehow, through all of it, you are expected to keep going.

I did keep going. And my story had a particular ending that I am deeply grateful for. But that gratitude doesn't erase what came before it. The heartbreak. The medical intervention and rallying and showing up anyway. The time that passed in a kind of grief I hadn't known before.

That stays with me. It's part of why I do this work.

The losses that don't have names. The grief that sits alongside hope. The exhaustion of holding both at once, this is exactly what I am here for.

🪷 You don't have to carry this quietly. 🪷

13/02/2026

Welcome to my counselling room.

​Reaching out, making an appointment, walking up the stairs, sitting in the waiting room, and finally walking in. Every one of these steps takes courage, especially when it is grief that has brought you here.

​I find that knowing exactly where you’ll land can help ease the way.

​This is my room. That is my chair. Your grief will fill this space, and for our hour, we will hold it together.

​If you are bringing a little griever, we’ll likely sit on the fluffy rug or gather around the table. If you are bringing a teen, they might find their place on the couch or even the floor.

Wherever you land, you are welcome here. Thank you for the courage it took just to get through the door.
​🪷🪷🪷

​

05/02/2026

I share these stories not to shock or sadden, but to create space for what's already here. Loss sits among us, every day.

Loss is universal, yet often hidden.

🪷 Someone at work might be navigating another month of fertility treatment that hasn't worked, while being asked to celebrate a colleague's pregnancy announcement.

🪷 Someone in your child's class might be acutely aware of Mother's Day on the horizon, the first time they'll navigate the crafts, the stalls, the day itself, without their own Mum.

🪷 Someone on your team might not have seen their kids in a long while due to a messy separation, sitting in regular therapy with the agony of this while hoping for change on the horizon.

🪷 One of your friends might be the last one living from their family of origin, reckoning with where do I belong now, and who do I belong to?

Grief is real. It's hard, it's messy, and it's often invisible. We all know grief of some form.

My invitation today is to be gentle with ourselves and others. To get curious about what another might be holding. To be someone who names the loss, who sits in the rubble of that experience and makes another feel just a tiny bit less alone.

30/01/2026

🪷The 90 second rule 🪷

When a big wave of emotion hits, it can feel like it will never end, but one perspective from neurobiology offers another way to look at it.

Research suggests that the physical surge of an emotion, the chemicals that flood your body during a spike of grief or anger, actually only lasts for about 90 seconds.

If that intensity lingers, it may be because the mind has stepped in. We might start to worry about the feeling or replay the story behind it, which may trigger a brand new 90 second loop.

🪷 Of course, grief is rarely that simple. 🪷

It is a heavy, complex experience that doesn't follow a clock, and these loops often happen automatically.

But I wonder if you can consider this research as one tool to keep in mind when the waves feel especially rocky.

A way to ground yourself when the wave comes.

The video today is a gentle reminder to try and sit with the physical surge, without judging it or trying to fix it. It isn’t about rushing your grief, just giving yourself a window to breathe while the wave does its thing.

🪷🪷🪷

Post informed by Taylor, J. B. (2006). My stroke of insight: A brain scientist's personal journey. Viking.

27/01/2026

Motherhood is complex.

It brings joy and wonder, yes. But it also brings losses that are hard to name. The birth you hoped for. The person you were before. The friendships that couldn't stretch. The version of motherhood you imagined.

🪷 These losses are real. And they deserve to be witnessed. 🪷

You don't have to wait until you're at breaking point to reach out. You don't have to have it all figured out. You're allowed to ask for support simply because something is hard. That's reason enough.

If you're carrying grief that feels invisible or ambiguous, I'm here. This is what I do.

Read more about navigating the hidden grief of motherhood over at

  [link in bio]

16/01/2026

Continuing Bonds is me keeping this exact hairspray in my house at all times, even though I never use it on my hair.

🪷 This was my Nanna's scent. 🪷

She wore this particular brand, this exact variation, always. She died when I was 18, and yet this smell still holds everything: the love, the loss, the ache of missing her, the doorway into my grief.

Just now, as I took this photo, I spritzed my room with it. For a moment, I was closer to her.

This is continuing bonds, staying connected to someone who's died, keeping the relationship alive in a different form. Through ritual, through scent, through saying their name, through remembering.

This one is small, simple, and mine.

What do you do to stay close to your people who've died? I'd love to hear. 🪷🪷🪷

09/01/2026

A little note from me about my availability as we step into 2026.

Thinking of everyone who is just now catching their breath after the holidays and new year period. This can be such a difficult time when grief is along for the ride.

If it's not settling and you're seeking support,. please reach out. My calendar is filling fast.

🪷🪷🪷

06/01/2026

Kids grieve differently.

Their age shapes how they make sense of loss, but make no mistake, children grieve from a very young age, even when they don't have the words for it.

What I often see is adults trying to shield kids from grief. It makes sense. Grief is painful and confusing, and we want to protect them. So we avoid the topic or use euphemisms and stories that end up making things more confusing for our littlest grievers.

Kids know something is up, even when they don't know what. Our job as grown-ups is to help them build a framework for loss, to help them make sense of what's happened. When we do this well, we set them up to grieve well into their future.

What helps?

🪷 Be clear about what's happened in child-appropriate language. "X died. Their body stopped working. We won't get to see them again."

🪷 Make space for the feelings that come with this truth. "It's okay if this makes you sad, or angry, or if it doesn't make sense."

🪷 Allow questions, and often the same questions over and over again. "Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

🪷 Help them feel safe and secure. "X's body stopped working. My body is okay, your body is okay. We are safe. I'm here for whatever you want to tell me, ask me, however you feel. I can handle it."

The younger the child, the more confusing this will be. They'll use play to explore their questions and may act out behaviourally. This is all normal, and incredibly challenging.

One of the biggest gifts we can give our littlest grievers is honesty about what's happened, and sitting in the hard stuff with them. Sometimes the biggest work is supporting the adults to be okay, so the little ones can be okay too.

🪷If you need help with this, please reach out. I support both the big people and the little people from 5+. 🪷

17/12/2025

Here we are again, at another December, a time of great complexity.

For many, the holidays bring joy. For others, grief joins over the holidays, bringing exacerbated pain, hope and heartache, rituals changed forever more.

This complexity feels particularly acute this week, in the wake of Sunday's attack in Bondi. My heart is with our Jewish community, those killed, those injured, those who witnessed unspeakable violence, and those now carrying fear during what should be a time of light and celebration. This grief is collective. We all hold pieces of it.

🪷 All are welcome at Grief Guide. This is a space that will not tolerate prejudice or hate. 🪷

Whether you're celebrating, grieving, or navigating both, I hope that we all go gently this season.

Please note I will have limited availability between 19th December and the end of January. If you need support during this time, please reach out via DM, phone, or email, and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm able.
Lifeline: 13 11 14 and Griefline: 1300 845 745 remain available for additional support.

🪷 Wishing you moments of peace this holiday period, now more than ever. 🪷

05/12/2025

A few thoughts this afternoon on the things we say to grieving people.

If you've experienced some of these, I'm sorry.
If you've said some of these, please think again.

🪷 Go gently, this season, and always 🪷

02/12/2025

Your grief matters. 

🪷 Big grief. Small grief. 

🪷 Visible grief. Grief gone unseen. 

🪷 Ambiguous grief. 

🪷 Grief that's new. Grief you've known for some time.

Grief is a universal experience, yet it looks different each time, for each person. It changes day to day, moment to moment.

Your grief matters, no matter what caused it, what's influences it or what sits beneath it.

Your grief is welcome here, in all of its forms, even when it feels like it doesn't fit anywhere else. 

🪷 Let's hold it together. 🪷

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22 Boron Street
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