The Kind of Grief You Can’t Read About

The Day My Understanding Changed Forever

I used to think I understood grief.

I’d say all the right things: “I’m so sorry for your loss,” “You’re in my prayers,” “Let me know if you need anything.” I wasn’t being fake — I genuinely meant well. But the truth is, I had no idea what I was saying.

Then I lost my mother. And suddenly, words — even my own — felt useless.

I remember standing in my parents’ bedroom, where my mom used to lay during her hospice time, feeling empty and trying to figure out how to carry on with life when all I wanted to do was follow her to her grave.

That moment marked the beginning of a season that taught me: you can’t understand grief until you become part of it. You can’t know the weight of a shattered heart until you’re the one holding the pieces.

This isn’t a how-to or a five-step guide to healing. It’s a story. One that might feel like yours in some places. And if it helps even one soul feel a little less alone — then maybe, just maybe, the pain I carried was never wasted.

Grief Isn’t a Guest, It’s a Season

When my mom passed, the world didn’t stop — but mine did.

I wanted to be happy. I tried to be happy. I faked normal as best as I could. But no matter how much I tried to smile, there was this lingering aura of darkness. Like a light had been snuffed out inside me. Or maybe it was still there, but so dim it could barely be called light at all.

Grief was not a visitor I could entertain politely and then usher out the door. It was a season. A long, grey, tender one.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

Even in that darkness, God was present. Not loudly. Not with fireworks. But with a soft, steady constancy. He stayed — through people, through quiet mercies, through unexplainable grace.

Lickins: A Tiny Meow and an Unexpected Comfort

In the midst of all that heaviness — the kind you carry in your bones — there was Lickins.

A gorgeous black, snobbish, and unapologetically fluffy Maine Coon, Lickins belonged to my roommate, but somehow, during my deepest grief, he became a quiet, comforting presence in my life.

He had a reputation in the neighborhood — a full-blown cat bully with a death stare and a porch strut like he owned the block. But what caught me off guard was his voice. For all his size and swagger, his meow was tiny. Comically soft. Delicate, even. It made me laugh the first time I heard it — a moment of levity I didn’t realize I needed.

Earning his affection became something of a mission. Maybe it gave me a small sense of purpose in a season where everything else felt meaningless. When I came home from work, he’d greet me with his trademark indifferent glance and, on rare occasions, a soft meow — his way of saying I mattered.

He couldn’t fix the pain. He couldn’t answer the questions or erase the memories. But Lickins became like a band-aid on a bleeding heart — not a cure, but a comforting presence. And some days, just knowing he noticed me was enough.

I Used to Say “I Understand.” Now I Just Sit With You.

Grief taught me that compassion isn’t about having the perfect words. It’s about presence.

Before, I was quick to offer advice. Now, I just sit.

I used to think comforting someone meant trying to take their pain away. Now, I know it means acknowledging it — and being willing to sit with them in it, without rushing them through it.

“You don’t heal from the loss of a loved one because time passes. You heal because of what you do with that time.” — Carol Crandell

What I offer now is simple: a soundboard, a helping hand, or quiet companionship. I don’t expect them to grieve like I did. I just want them to know it’s okay to be where they are.

God’s Presence in Grief

Grief is strange. It reveals things about you that only pain can uncover. But it also reveals God — if you’re paying attention.

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” — Psalm 23:4

God didn’t rescue me from my grief, but He sat in it with me. He showed up in small ways: a meal from a friend, a text at the right time, a moment of stillness when my soul needed it most.

It took four and a half years for that heavy cloud to lift. But when it did, joy returned. Not the same joy — but something deeper. Gentler. More rooted in knowing that I had lived through something sacred and survived.

“Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

Mornings aren’t always literal. Sometimes they’re long in coming. But joy does return. And when it does, it finds you changed — softer, slower, stronger.

Soul Insights

Things Grief Taught Me About Love and Humanity

1. Compassion is Presence, Not Performance.

I used to think that helping someone meant having the right words or offering advice that would somehow lift the sadness. But grief doesn’t need to be solved — it needs to be witnessed. What people long for most in their pain is someone who won’t flinch, who won’t rush, who simply stays. Real compassion is sitting beside someone in silence and saying with your presence, “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

2. Grief Reveals the Depth of Love.

The pain I felt wasn’t just about loss — it was a reflection of how deeply I loved, and how deeply I was loved in return. Grief, in its rawest form, shows you that love is never small. It echoes in every tear, every memory, every ache that lingers long after someone is gone. I no longer see grief as something to “get over,” but as a sacred reminder that something — someone — mattered profoundly.

3. Healing Isn’t Linear — It’s Layered.

There were days when I laughed, and moments when I felt like I’d turned a corner… only to find myself crying over something as small as a scent or a song. That’s the thing about healing — it doesn’t happen in a straight line. It happens in spirals, in waves, in unexpected moments. And each layer reveals something new: not just about your pain, but about your strength, your memories, and your capacity to keep going.

4. You Can’t Rush What’s Sacred.

I used to pressure myself to feel “better” quickly — to smile again, function again, be normal again. But grief doesn’t respond to pressure. It’s sacred work, and sacred things take time. I’ve learned that God isn’t in a rush with my healing, and neither should I be. The slow unraveling, the deep wrestling, the quiet rebuilding — it all has a place in the story of restoration.

5. Your Story Has Power.

At first, I didn’t want to talk about my grief. It felt too personal, too messy. But I’ve come to realize that even if my story doesn’t offer answers, it can offer resonance. It can say to someone else, “I’ve been there too.” And in that resonance, there’s healing — for me and for them. Sharing your story isn’t about being strong; it’s about being real enough to remind someone they’re not alone.

Final Thoughts: When You Become Part of the Story

“You cannot understand a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes.” — Atticus Finch (Harper Lee)

True understanding can’t happen at a distance. You have to enter the experience. Live it. Let it break and remake you.

I didn’t understand grief until I became part of it. And now that I have, I don’t try to explain it away. I just show up. With presence. With compassion. With a reminder that healing is possible — even if it takes years. Even if it’s slow.

If you’re grieving right now, let me say this:

You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re simply human. And you’re healing, one breath at a time.

And if my story resonates with you, I’d love to hear yours. Let’s remind each other that we’re not alone.

Soul Path Insights