13 things I’ve learned in (almost) one year of grief
Autumn evenings in Barcelona bring a fresh breath of relief from the relentless, sticky heat of July and August. As September transitions into October, the darker evenings have a cosy feel to them. Hoodies and thick socks emerge from drawers and wardrobes, and steaming cups of infusions made from the last of the summer herbs no longer make you sweat but warm you to just the right temperature. It’s warm enough to have the windows open but cool enough to wrap yourself in a blanket.
As the leaves change colour and fall to the ground, the autumn evenings are now tinged with sadness — a deep and longing despair that blows in on the breeze as the shadows silently lengthen. As I sit on the sofa surrounded by candles and fairy lights, staring at the black sky outside, memories of another evening, exactly like this one, just one short year ago, fill my mind.
I realise with a jolt I’m sitting right where I was that terrible night I got the phone call we all dread. Almost a year has passed, and it still doesn’t feel real. A year goes by incredibly fast when you’re grieving. Perhaps it does when you’re not — I can’t remember now.
A year of living without her, and somehow I’m still alive to tell the tale. In this post, I’ll share 13 things I’ve learned about grief during that time.
1. It makes you grow up fast
No matter how old you are, you learn a lot of lessons the hard way when you lose a close loved one. It changes your perspective on what really matters in life, and other people’s problems and even things you used to worry about seem trivial in comparison to your loss.
When I lost my mum, I lost my best friend and my rock. I lost my only source of unconditional love and the person who knew me better than anyone else in the world. At 35, I had to become my own mother. I had to learn to give myself that unconditional love, make decisions without consulting her opinion, be my own biggest cheerleader, and solve my problems by myself.
All this has made me more decisive and less tolerant of bullshit. But it’s also made me more anxious, jaded, and cynical. I miss the adventurous, enthusiastic woman I was before grief entered my life, and in some ways, I’m grieving for her, too.
2. Everyone grieves in their own way
Every grief process is as unique as a fingerprint because it depends on the relationship between the living and the deceased and because we all react to situations differently.
You will have needs as you grieve, and those needs may sometimes clash with the needs of those around you. Grief rocks even the most solid families, and different ways of grieving can lead to tensions and even ruptures. Perhaps you need to be alone, but a family member needs your comfort. Maybe you disagree over funeral arrangements, headstone inscriptions, or what to do with their belongings.
Being aware that everyone grieves differently can go some way to mitigating disagreements that escalate to full-blown rows. Try to be as flexible as possible, look for compromises when you can, and when someone tests your patience, remember it’s probably their grief talking.
3. Losing a parent young is different
It’s controversial to say that one grief is worse than another, but losing a parent in your thirties is definitely worse than losing them in your forties, fifties, or sixties. Just as losing a parent in your twenties or as a child is worse than losing them in your thirties.
Fight me on it if you want, but it’s not the same.
I wasn’t ready to be motherless at 35. I was too young — and so was my mum. When your parents die in their eighties or nineties, of course it’s sad — but at least you can rest assured they lived a full life. In many cases, older adults people suffer long, drawn-out illnesses that give loved ones time to start grieving while they’re still alive and from which they no longer suffer when death finally comes knocking for them.
Well-meaning older relatives have imparted their (unsolicited) advice to me over the last year. People who lost older parents in their eighties and nineties, many of whom suffered from diseases whose end brought relief to all involved. They think they’ve been through it, that they know my pain. They don’t. Only those who have lost a parent too young understand it’s a different kind of pain to losing a parent who’s lived a long life.
4. You can’t do it alone
If you’re lucky, you might have a close-knit family whose members support one another through their loss. If you don’t have that, you’re going to need another support network because there will be days when you’ll need them to carry you.
Our family has never been close — my mum was the glue that held us together, and without her, we’re coming apart at the seams like the pocket of an old coat. I’ve been lucky to have a safety net of chosen family (special mentions go to Max, Anne, Silvana, Renata, Eryn, Lena, Mie, Simone, Leila, and Aoife if you’re reading this).
There have been days over the last year when I thought I would die. I’ve gritted my teeth through social events and left early when they got too much. I’ve cried at networking events and made people squirm with my woeful tales of grief. But they’ve stuck with me through it all, and I couldn’t have gotten through the last year without a little help from my friends (and my therapist).
5. Don’t expect anything from anyone
When you lose someone you love, you expect people to rally round and support you — and some will, but probably not the ones you expect.
The reality is most people don’t know how to deal with your grief. They don’t know what to say, and that makes them uncomfortable. So to avoid their discomfort, they don’t say anything, not realising that even saying “I don’t know what to say” is better than not saying anything at all. In fact, it’s arguably one of the best things you can say, as it acknowledges that the loss is so terrible there are no words for it — which is exactly what a griever feels.
Expectations set you up for disappointment, so it’s best not to have them. And if there are rifts in your family, don’t expect any miraculous reconciliations — they can happen but are unlikely. If anything, the loss will probably make them worse, not better.
6. You’ll get used to “the look”
I recently visited my aunt, my mother’s older sister and BFF, who introduced me to her neighbour — a big, friendly man with a big, friendly smile who shook my hand enthusiastically.
“She’s Mary’s daughter,” my aunt added.
Immediately, his expression transformed into “the look” — a mixture of fear, pity, and perhaps even guilt. The look reconfirms that the nightmare you’re living is, in fact, real — and there’s no waking up from it.
When you lose someone you love, you get used to seeing it. A lot.
7. Grief brain is real
I have ADHD, so I’m already pretty scatterbrained. But since I lost my mum, it feels like I’ve lost my mind. Getting through the day and staying on top of routine tasks has become overwhelming and exhausting. I don’t have the same mental energy, drive, or abilities I had before grief came into my life.
Messages go unanswered, and phone calls unreturned for months until their memory fades from my mind completely (sorry, friends). Projects started in the quest to find something — anything — to keep grief from my mind lay forgotten, gathering dust.
Grief brain is real. Grief envelopes your entire being relentlessly. Sleep may bring some respite (if you can get it), but more often than not, it’s plagued by disturbing dreams as your brain continues to process your loss. I guess it gets better at some point, but not within the first year.
8. Grief is lonely
How could grief not be lonely? You’ve lost someone you loved, someone who made up part of your entire existence. A relationship has vanished, and you’re left to hold up your end of it alone.
You will feel misunderstood as you grieve. People will see you smiling on social media and assume you “feel better”. Friends who are unfamiliar with grief will offer misguided unsolicited advice. Acquaintances will drone on about the mundane details of their lives, blissfully unaware that you couldn’t give a fuck because how could something so trivial matter now that your loved one is dead?
You’ll learn to put on a mask every time you leave the house. A brave and smiling face that shows the world how strong you are and reassures them that you’re “getting over it”. But on the inside, you’re a sobbing mess. This disconnect between how you really feel and how the world wants you to feel can feel incredibly isolating, even when you’re surrounded by people.
9. You never get over it
My grief has changed over the last year, although its presence is still as large and all-encompassing as ever. But as my grief evolves, it embeds itself deeper into my being as it gradually becomes a part of who I am.
I suppose that with time, grief will change. The pain may morph from a searing, burning sensation to a dull ache. But I know I’ll never get over it. Happy occasions will never be quite so happy. Every milestone, every achievement, every Christmas, birthday, and anniversary will always be stained with grief and loss.
10. You feel jealous of non-grievers
I’m jealous of everyone whose mother is alive. When I see women walking with their elderly mothers in the street, I see the future that was stolen from me.
When I see teenagers and young adults preening, posing, and posturing, I remember that, for all their bravado, they have a loving mum at home making their dinner and washing their PE kit.
I feel jealous of them and of my teenage self, who would have done things a lot differently if she had only known what the future had in store for her.
I feel jealous of my partner, who’s 17 years older than me, yet his mother is still alive. He’s already had 18 years more with her than I got to have with mine. I even feel jealous of all my aunts and uncles, who were much older than me when they lost their parents.
And I’m especially jealous of all those who have no idea what it’s like to organise a loved one’s funeral and live with that memory for the rest of their lives.
11. Grief leaves you with regrets
Regrets are the twisting knife in the belly wound of your grief. They’ll wake you in the middle of the night, heart racing with anxiety, desperate to turn back time and make things different, but with the devastating knowledge that you can’t.
I suspect every death leaves regrets in its wake. My biggest regret is that I didn’t see my mum more often. I chose to live in a foreign country and visit once or twice a year, and when she died, I hadn’t seen her for two years because of the pandemic. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that.
12. Animals help
I heard on a podcast that getting a dog can bring grievers relief. Unfortunately, I have a cat — and a pretty useless one at that. She never sits on laps or is particularly affectionate, and because she was abandoned as a baby, she’s traumatised and terrified of everything.
Even so, her presence is comforting, and she does provide some pretty decent laughter therapy. Often, the only times I’ll laugh on any given day are because of her “singing” to the flies she can’t catch, chasing her tail, or even just doing a face like this one:
If you have the means and the time, consider getting a pet. They really do help with grief.
13. With grief, you’ll never be the same again
Grief changes everything. These are just a few of the lessons I’ve learned in my first year of grief — and there are quite a few I left out because I had to draw the line somewhere.
I’m sure the next year of grief will bring more lessons. I’ve heard the second year is worse than the first, so I’m bracing myself for that.
If you’re a griever, let me know if you resonate with this list. What other lessons has your grief taught you?
