Grief — a Journey Through Loss

A Stoic Perspective on Coping and Recovering

12 min readMar 21, 2024

Image from Harvard Medical School webpage

It was 2012. I had just finished my assignment in Damascus, Syria, and returned home to Baku, Azerbaijan. For the last year, the war in Syria kept my family in Baku in a constant state of anxiety. So, my safe return to Baku was a huge relief for everyone, particularly for my father. He was not very good at expressing his worry and put on a brave facade every time we met or talked over the phone, but I knew he was very distressed.

I remember the date very well. It was 28 June. The day after was my son’s birthday, so I was keen to be home for that. Another thing that I remember clearly is that 28 June saw the semi-finals of the European Football Championship, Italy versus Germany. As a lifelong fan of the Italian team, I was looking forward to this game even though most people thought Germany would win.

I got home, and I called Dad. I’m home, Dad, I said. He said — that is great, son! — unable to hide his joy. Are you going to watch the match tonight? — I asked. Do you want me to come over so we watch it together? He hesitated momentarily, then said: Nah, son, you need to rest. Then he laughed and added: I know many people don’t think so, but I’m sure Italy will win. We will watch the finals together. It made sense, I thought. Alright then, Dad. I’ll see you soon.

This was the last time I spoke to Dad. A couple of hours later, I got a phone call from my brother, who informed me that Dad had passed away. A stroke, he said. Dad was 58.

I don’t remember much of the next two or three days—funeral proceedings, the consolations of friends and family, and the dozens and dozens of people around us. So many people came to pay their respects. I felt like a zombie. I did not speak much. I took care of a payment here and an errand there. Felt out of balance. Like a broken watch. I tried to find space to be alone, but it was almost impossible. There was always someone around, which, in hindsight, was perhaps not bad.

I laughed once. My brother and I were both pretty strong; we had lifted weights since we were 17 or 18 years old. Dad was a Soviet-era intellectual who always reacted with skepticism to physical training. Read books! — he would say. Why can’t we read and work out, Dad? — my brother and I would ask. Waste of time! — he would shake his head, which was the end of the conversation. So, my brother and I worked out secretly without Dad knowing. Barely any other family member exercised. And on the day of Dad’s burial, when we had to bring Dad’s body downstairs for bathing and then the burial, we realized it would not be that easy. Dad was a big man. 130 kilos. My brother and I ended up doing most of the heavy lifting. Somewhere halfway down the stairs, my brother and I looked at each other and started laughing. We did not need to say anything. The only two people in the extended family who did not listen to Dad’s words on working out ended up being the two who were strong enough to carry his body to his grave.

But it was another episode that jerked me out of this state of trance. I was standing on my parents’ apartment balcony, lost in thought when my father’s cousin walked to me and said: You see all that? I looked at him and said: What? He pointed at the view seven floors down and said: All this. People. Everyone and everything is moving on with their lives. As if nothing has happened. So life does go on, I thought.

My father had such a bigger-than-life personality and such a prominent role in the lives of everyone in our extended family that imagining the world without him had been impossible. Up to that point, that is. Going forward, the only way the world would be was, in fact, without him. In the next few days, I struggled with accepting what had happened. That I had to move on, just as the rest of the world already had. That I, my mother, my brother, everyone else had to figure out how things would be without Dad. Weirdly enough, a quote from the second Matrix movie was often on my mind in those days. Morpheus said: “What happened happened and couldn’t have happened any other way.” I have never been much of a determinist, but looking at things this way at that time helped with acceptance.

My thoughts kept going back to the last conversation I had with Dad. I kept replaying the details of the conversation and everything that happened that day. There was nothing deep or prominent about our last phone conversation—nothing significant other than it being the last one. But that, I guess, is one lesson I learned. You never know which will be the last.

I tried to recall every word. I was upset that I could not reconstruct exactly how it happened. Should I have picked up some sign that he was not okay? Was there anything that should have tipped me off? Rationally, I understood that torturing myself like this was useless. Our conversation was so short and simple; there was nothing to cling to, interpret, or look for deeper meaning in. I kept coming back to a simple conclusion. He loved me. He rarely said it explicitly. But in this last conversation, he could not have expressed it more clearly — you are tired and need to rest; I am sure your team will win; I look forward to hanging out with you to watch the finals. A father does not need to say much to express love to his son.

Twelve years have passed, and a lot has happened since then. Every time I am in Baku, I visit Dad’s grave. I try to do it alone. I am sometimes with Mom. I stand in front of his gravestone, looking at his etched image, and tell him how things are in my life—the good, the bad, and the funny. I recall a memory or two we had together. And I always leave the cemetery with a smile on my face.

Everyone experiences grief. Unless you are a psychological type with reduced empathy, sooner or later in life, whether it is the death of a loved one, a painful breakup, hearing unexpected news of serious health deterioration, a significant financial loss, or losing one’s home or a country — grief is coming for you. A powerful and complex phenomenon, grief is typically a response to the loss of someone or something deeply significant to us. It can include many emotions, such as sadness, anger, and confusion. It is a deeply personal and individual experience.

We all come to terms with a loss differently. I’ve thought about this a lot since Dad’s passing. Other losses and sad episodes I have had. I want to share a few things from personal experience and others that I’ve picked up from extensive reading on the philosophy of Stoicism.

First, let me say that Stoicism is widely misunderstood when it comes to dealing with emotions. There is this misperception that Stoics do not feel anything—or try not to feel anything. Rather than detaching themselves from emotions, Stoics, in fact, teach how to deal with them, particularly in situations of serious emotional distress.

Stoicism is not about suppressing emotions. It is about dealing with them. It is about not letting them consume you. Seneca wrote: “Nature requires from us some sorrow, while more than this is the result of vanity. But never will I demand of you that you should not grieve at all”. In another instance, Seneca notes that when grieving, you should “Let your tears flow, but let them also cease, let deepest sighs be drawn from your breast, but let them also find an end.”

Here are a few things to keep in mind when confronted with a loss:

Give grief its due. Do not ignore the emotion. Acknowledge it. Mourning can trigger many intense and unexpected emotions. But the pain won’t disappear if you ignore it. Trying to do that may make things worse in the long run. Earl Grollman, a bereavement counselor, said: “The only cure for grief is to grieve.” Or, as Jordan Peterson put it: “The only way is through.” So let it be.
At the same time, do not despair unreasonably. You never expected to face death? As I tell my friends, sometimes, the most painful part of getting older is not aging itself but that more and more people you care about die. Death is inevitable. It is natural. Even necessary for us to have meaning. Our lives are finite. This is what makes our experiences and the people we love precious. It will all be gone soon enough. This is why, going back to Seneca: “We must weep, but we must not wail.” Death is a central concept in the philosophy of Stoicism, but not because it is an inherently pessimistic outlook. Memento mori — remember that you, too, will die. Reminding ourselves about our mortality should inspire us not to waste time on the insignificant. To be present. And to help accept the loss we have just experienced.
Avoid “trap” thoughts. Something everyone said about my Dad’s passing — he was too young! This kind of comment keeps us grieving and makes it difficult to move on. After all, yes, 58 was not too old. But then again, compared to whom? Mozart died at 35. Pushkin at 37. Kobe Bryant, who was born two weeks before me, died at 41. Emperors, billionaires, and champions have died at a much younger age than my Dad.
Reframe. You are not the victim of this. Life, Destiny, God, no one is targeting or punishing you. Why did this have to happen to me? As the Stoics point out, things happen. Such is life. Marcus Aurelius wrote in Meditations: “Choose not to be harmed — and you won’t feel harmed. Don’t feel harmed — and you haven’t been.” The point is to avoid self-victimization. It is a paradox, but Stoicism has helped me realize that one of the most effective ways to feel in control is recognizing that you are not in control of most things in your life. Remember, on a daily basis, we witness misfortune that befalls other people. Not just the wars and natural disasters. But all the funerals and hospital visits you attend. We usually don’t stop to consider that this may happen someday. We act like it would be so unfair and cruel. So, give yourself a bit of a reality check.
Premeditatio malorum. This is a Stoic exercise of negative visualization — imagining the worst that can happen. Sure, I hope for a great day, but do you think for a second how you would act if things went wrong? Very wrong? Horribly wrong? It is a very powerful exercise — practicing being calm in the face of a tragic event. Epictetus suggests the most chilling version of this: “As you kiss your son good night, whisper to yourself, “He may be dead in the morning.” I have children. Losing them is the most terrifying thing I can think of. Yet Stoics have a point — we cannot take things for granted. Bad things should not happen. But they do. Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor and the most powerful man of his time, lost nine children.
Positive memories. These days, when I think of Dad, I can always come up with a fun story or two. It can be painful, but I follow Seneca’s guidance he gave to someone who lost their son: “Your son deserves to make you happy each time you think of him, each time you mention his name — and you will honor him more greatly if you greet his memory cheerfully and with joy, as he used to be greeted while still alive.” Seneca also advises to invite friends and family to share memories of the person lost. We do not need to forget to move on. We can remember the good things and be thankful for having had these experiences.
Gratitude. This is not an article about gratitude, but it is not far off. Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, dedicates the whole first book to the people he is grateful to. He lists them and explains their influence on him. This is a useful exercise to undertake, not only for people you have lost, but also for people who are still around. Try it out. And if you feel comfortable, let them know.
Take care of your body. I can’t say this enough. Sleep, move, eat well. Get some sunlight. Spend time in nature. Avoid alcohol and drugs, and other destructive behaviours — they may take the edge of for some time, but always end up making things worse. Grief takes a lot of energy, and your ability to function will be much lower than usual. Lower your expectations, but don’t bring it to zero. Take care of yourself — your loved ones who are still around need you to.
Have some alone time. Not too much. I am talking about physical isolation — being alone. As opposed to social isolation — being lonely. Engage in an activity you can do alone — journaling, meditation, a hobby. But I repeat, don’t overdo it. Being left alone with your thoughts going in circles as you are dealing with a loss can be bad for you. So keep this to a minimum. There is a reason why for centuries funeral ceremonies in many cultures across the world involved families and friends spending time together. It works.
Spend time with people. It may be hard to speak to others, to reach out, to ask for help, to ask for company. People around may feel uncomfortable intruding. Some may think it is best to leave you alone. Even if people around you may not seem exactly what you think you need, too chatty, or too quiet, try to be patient. It will take effort, but it is better than being alone. If you feel you need to, ask to stay with someone else, family or friends. Watch for the signs of overstaying the welcome though.

If you are trying to comfort someone else who is grieving, you can try to use the above points to create an appropriate environment for them. Be careful not to take on someone else’s grief. Don’t try to join, focus on helping them overcome their grief. The worst thing you can do is talk and behave along the lines of: “I understand how you feel”. In fact, “I can’t imagine what you are going through” is a better message. Above all, try to help with practical things — tasks or errands (paying bills, cleaning up) that your grieving friend or family seems unable to tackle at this point.

Here you have it. My two cents. Give grief its due, observe yourself, take care of your body and mind, and stay (mostly) around people. Nothing mindblowlingly new, but sometimes even the obvious has to be said.

I want to share two examples of grieving, put beautifully into words that I have come across over the years:

Elizabeth Gilbert on the passing of her partner:

People keep asking me how I’m doing, and I’m not always sure how to answer that. It depends on the day. It depends on the minute. Right this moment, I’m OK. Yesterday, not so good. Tomorrow, we’ll see.

Here is what I have learned about Grief, though.

I have learned that Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.

The only way that I can “handle” Grief, then, is the same way that I “handle” Love — by not “handling” it. By bowing down before its power in complete humility.

From Richard Feynman’s Love Letter to His Wife, Sixteen Months After Her Death

“I adore you, sweetheart. I know how much you like to hear that — but I don’t only write it because you like it — I write it because it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you.

It is such a terribly long time since I last wrote to you — almost two years but I know you’ll excuse me because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; and I thought there was no sense to writing.

But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you.

I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead — but I still want to comfort and take care of you — and I want you to love me and care for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you — I want to do little projects with you. I never thought until just now that we can do that.”

If you liked this read, check out my home page for articles about philosophy, learning, self-improvement, literature, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and more. Here are some you may be interested in:

Grief — a Journey Through Loss

A Stoic Perspective on Coping and Recovering

Written by Rational Badger