09/06/2025
Grief, Love, and the Echoes That Remain
Grief is a word we hear often. There’s a model—five stages they say: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It’s helpful in many ways, this framework. But if you've walked the path of loss, you know it’s not a straight line. It’s not a checklist. It’s a tide that ebbs and flows—some days soft, others overwhelming.
I’ve known grief in different shades and seasons. My first experience was as a child, when I lost my godfather. I missed him, yes—but more than that, I remember the pain I saw in the eyes of my mother, her sisters, and my grandparents. That was my first encounter with the collective sorrow that grief brings, the kind that wraps itself around a whole family.
Years later, I lost my grandmother—someone I was deeply close to. Alzheimer’s took her slowly, and each visit felt like losing her a little more. That grief was different: prolonged, aching, and profoundly unfair.
And then nearly three years ago, I lost my mum. The grief of a mother’s death is something words struggle to hold. But her illness—cruel as it was—offered us a strange and sacred gift: time. Time to say what mattered. Time to repair, to hold hands, to remember. We laughed, we shared, and I carry those moments like treasure.
Most days now, I am doing well. But then there are days like today. A simple thing—a burst of cheekiness from my niece—and suddenly I could hear my mother’s laugh, vivid and bright in my head. I laughed, and then I cried.
That’s grief too. Love echoing through time.
So here’s a small piece of advice from my heart to yours:
Record their voices. Save the laughs, the goodnight wishes, the little things. I cannot begin to explain how healing it is to hear my mum say “Good night” when I need it the most.
If you’re navigating grief right now, know this: your journey is your own. Don’t compare it, don’t rush it.
And if you're open to a gentle practice, here’s something art therapy has taught me:
Create a memory box. Fill it with drawings, photographs, handwritten notes, objects that remind you of your loved one. Let it be a space for connection—not to hold on in pain, but to honour in love. When the waves come, sit with your box. Add to it. Let it hold you.
Grief is the price of deep love. And somehow, in that ache, there is beauty too.
💛