Living with Grief: When Grief Becomes a Companion

Grief doesn’t arrive with instructions. It doesn’t knock politely or give you time to brace yourself. It shows up uninvited—sometimes quietly in the middle of the night, other times with the force of a storm that you never saw coming. And when it comes, it doesn’t just affect your heart—it rearranges your entire life.

I’ve been there. I’ve watched people I love disappear from this earth, one by one, leaving behind echoes of their laughter, their pain, their history. I’ve held space for clients navigating unbearable loss, and I’ve wrestled with my own emotions in trying to find the “right” thing to say—only to realize, more often than not, there isn’t one.

The Words That Don’t Help (Even If They’re Well-Meaning)

If you’ve ever grieved, you’ve heard them. The phrases meant to soothe, but instead leave you feeling hollow: “God knows best.” “They’re in a better place.” “At least they’re no longer suffering.” And maybe, in some distant way, those things are true. But when you’re drowning in pain, what you really want is for someone to just see it. Not fix it. Not explain it. Just witness it with you.

Because the truth is, it doesn’t help to know God has a plan when your heart is in pieces. It doesn’t bring peace to know your loved one isn’t in pain when your pain is still screaming. We say those things to fill silence—but sometimes, silence is sacred. Sometimes, sitting with someone in their grief is more healing than any words could be.

The Layers We Don’t Talk About

What makes grief so heavy isn’t just the absence of a person. It’s the unraveling of all the roles they played in your life. When I lost my sister, I didn’t just lose her—I lost a witness to my childhood. I lost someone who understood the nuances of growing up the way we did. Who remembered the same family secrets and inside jokes. That kind of loss is multilayered, like peeling back onion skin only to find another ache underneath.

When my friend Joy passed —someone who also lived with a chronic illness—the grief hit differently. Her absence didn’t just make me miss her; it made me question my own future. It stirred anxiety about my health, about my fate. And that's the thing about grief—it doesn’t stay in its own lane. It bleeds into your past, your present, and your fears for the future.

What Happens When You’re the Last One Left?

I think about my father and his sister—how they were the last of a big family. Out of seven siblings, only the two of them remained. And then, it was just her. I imagine the loneliness of that—the silence where voices used to be, the stillness in place of laughter. Even if you weren’t close, even if the dynamics were complicated, there's something deeply unsettling about being the last keeper of your family’s story.

How Do You Get Through?

The truth? You don’t get over grief. You get through it—but it’s a process that unfolds—not something you arrive at. And it doesn’t happen in a straight line. One day you’re okay. The next, a song or a scent or a random Tuesday brings it all back. And that’s not regression. That’s just love still living inside you. I told a client once that grief doesn’t leave you; you just learn how to carry it. You make room for it. You fold it into your routines. And over time, it shifts. It stops screaming and starts whispering. And every now and then, it even makes you smile.

Finding the Joy in the Memory

One day, I found myself reflecting on how much the world has changed—especially when it comes to technology. I was thinking about how quickly things move now, how much is different from when I was younger. And out of nowhere, I thought of my sister. I imagined what she’d say about all this “newfangled stuff.” Her sarcastic, no-nonsense commentary would’ve had me in stitches. And right there in the middle of my thoughts, I laughed. Not a sad laugh. A real one. One full of love and memory.

That’s the other side of grief—the joy of remembering. The unexpected moments that feel like your loved one is right there beside you, cracking jokes or nodding knowingly. Those moments are gold. They remind you that while death ends a life, it doesn’t end a relationship.

To Those Who Are Grieving Right Now

Whether you’re in the thick of fresh loss or carrying an ache that’s been with you for years, your grief matters. You don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to make it palatable for others. You just have to honor it—whatever that looks like for you today.

Let yourself cry. Let yourself laugh. Let yourself do both in the same breath. There’s no wrong way to grieve. There’s only your way.

And if you’re supporting someone who’s grieving—be gentle. With them and with yourself. You don’t need perfect words. You just need presence. A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, a heart willing to break open alongside theirs.

What Might Help—Not Fix, Just Help

Grief doesn’t come with a manual, but over time, you might discover small things that don’t erase the pain—but make it a little easier to carry. These aren’t solutions. They’re soft invitations—ways to hold yourself with care as you move through the waves.

• Find someone who gets it. Maybe it’s a therapist. Maybe it’s a friend. Maybe it’s a grief group. But finding even one person who can hold space for your pain without rushing it can be a lifeline. Sometimes, just being able to say, “this still hurts,” without being met with well-meaning but hollow reassurances is everything.

• Create a sacred space for connection. I once encouraged a client who lost her father to pick one of her favorite pictures of him—one that made her smile—and place it in a beautiful frame. She created a small space in her home just for him and that became her place to go when she needed to talk to him, especially since she never got to say goodbye. I’ve since shared that practice with others, and it’s been a powerful way to hold grief gently, like visiting a memory without having to explain yourself to the world.

• Write it out. Some people find journaling letters to the person they lost helps move the energy of grief. It gives them a way to say what’s still unsaid, to feel like they're still in conversation with them. I didn’t write letters to the people I’ve lost, not exactly, but I did start writing again. And that helped me in ways I didn’t expect. Sometimes the act of putting words to emotion—without needing to clean it up or make it make sense—becomes its own kind of release.

• Let joy visit when it wants to. You’re not betraying their memory by smiling. You’re not forgetting them when you laugh. Joy and grief are companions. Some days, one is louder. Other days, the other steps in. When joy knocks, open the door. It’s part of the healing, too.

• Move your body, gently. Whether it’s walking, stretching, dancing in your kitchen—whatever feels right. Grief lives in the body, and movement can help it shift. You don’t have to do much. Just breathe. Just move.

These small practices won’t fix the loss. But they might remind you that you’re still here. Still healing. Still finding ways to love and be loved—even in the midst of heartbreak.

Grief Is Love, Just in a Different Form

At the end of the day, grief is a reflection of love. You don’t grieve what you didn’t cherish. So when the pain feels unbearable, let that be your reminder: you loved deeply. You were loved deeply. And that kind of love doesn’t end. It just changes shape.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

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About the Author

I’m a writer, Licensed Professional Counselor, and someone who has loved and lost in ways that still shape how I show up in the world. This piece came from a place of reflection, memory, and deep compassion—for those I support for anyone trying to navigate the weight of loss. My hope is that these words offer warmth, validation, and maybe even a little light on the days when it feels hardest to carry.