The Long Road of Grief and Love
Grief has no clear beginning, no mapped-out path, and no defined destination. It is not a journey one embarks upon and completes, nor is it a task that can be checked off once it is finished. And yet, so often, the world seems to insist that it should be otherwise—that sorrow ought to be measured, contained, given a proper time and place and then gently ushered away. It is as though the presence of grief unsettles those who do not wish to see it, those who fear that its weight might draw them, too, into the depths. But grief is not something to be rushed or forced into retreat. It is not a disorder to be treated, nor a burden to be cast aside. It is, at its core, an expression of love. And love does not simply end.
When someone I have cherished is gone, their absence is not something that fades into nothingness. It is an imprint, an echo, a presence that remains even in their physical departure. At first, that absence is a wound—raw and unguarded, incapable of being soothed by words or time. It is a hollowing out of all that once was, a sudden rupture in the fabric of my days. The world moves on as though nothing has changed, but within me, everything is altered. I wake to the same light filtering through the window, but it falls differently now. I walk familiar paths, but they feel unfamiliar, stripped of the presence that once filled them. I speak words into the air, knowing they will never reach the ears that once listened.
And yet, in the deepest part of me, I know I do not wish to 'move on' in the way the world implies, if it means forgetting. I do not want to cross some imaginary threshold where the sorrow has been tidied away, where I no longer feel the pull of love reaching across time. For to grieve is to remember, and to remember is to keep love alive. The pain of absence is simply the other side of love's presence. They are not separate things, but two threads woven together in the tapestry of a life shared.
I have learned, over time, that grief does not go away. It does not dissolve or disappear. Instead, it changes. It becomes something different—not softer, necessarily, but something I have learned to carry. In the beginning, it is heavy, an unbearable weight that presses down with each step. But slowly, as days stretch into months and years, I find that I have grown stronger beneath it. Not because I have conquered grief, but because I have made space for it within me.
And in that space, something unexpected happens. Love does not recede—it deepens. The absence that once felt like an endless chasm becomes something else entirely. It becomes sacred ground, a place where love and memory meet, where sorrow and gratitude intertwine. I begin to understand that love is not confined to time, that it is not bound by the limits of presence or absence. It continues, finding new ways to manifest—sometimes in the quiet whisper of a familiar song, sometimes in the light that catches the edge of a flower's petal, sometimes in the way I suddenly recall a voice, a laughter, a hand reaching for mine.
The world tells us that healing means letting go, but I have come to believe otherwise. True healing is not about release, but about integration. It is about allowing grief to take its place within me, not as an enemy to be battled, but as a companion who walks beside me. I do not grieve because I am broken; I grieve because I have loved. And that love, even in the presence of sorrow, is still a gift.
In time, I come to understand that sorrow and joy are not opposites. They do not cancel each other out. Instead, they exist side by side, woven together like the shifting tides—ebbing and flowing, rising and receding, but always there. There are days when tears come easily, unbidden, catching me in the quiet spaces between moments. And there are days when I smile, not in spite of grief, but because of it—because I remember, because I still feel the love that was given and received, because I know that love does not end with loss.
No one walks the path of grief in the same way. Some keep their sorrow close, a quiet ember they tend to in solitude. Others let it spill forth, shared openly with those who can bear witness. There is no right or wrong way to mourn. There is only what is true for each heart, what each soul needs to navigate this uncharted terrain.
For me, grief is not something to be conquered. It is not a storm to be weathered until the sky clears. It is something far more profound—a deepening, a widening, an opening of the heart. It is a reminder that love is vast, that it does not disappear even when the one we love is no longer here. It is an invitation, not to forget, but to remember—to remember fully, to remember deeply, to remember in a way that does not diminish the past, but carries it forward into the present.
And so, I do not seek to 'move on' from grief, as though it were a place I could leave behind. Instead, I choose to move forward with it, allowing it to shape me, to teach me, to remind me always of the love that made it possible in the first place. For if love is what gives life its beauty, then grief, too, must hold something sacred within it. And in honoring my sorrow, I am also honoring the love that will always remain.
BLESSING
Dear Friend,
May you be granted the deep and quiet understanding that grief is not something to be conquered, but something to be carried with tenderness. May you never feel rushed to leave behind what still asks to be honored within you. May you know that sorrow is not a failure, nor a burden to be cast away, but the shape that love takes when it has lost its form in the world.
May you be gentle with yourself in the days when absence feels heavy, when the silence left behind is deafening, when the ache rises without warning. May you allow yourself the full range of what it means to mourn, without apology, without shame, without the need to measure your sorrow against the expectations of the world.
May you trust that love does not end, that it does not unravel simply because one is no longer here to hold it. May you come to see that love is wider than time, that it stretches beyond the boundaries of presence and absence, that it continues to shape you in ways seen and unseen. May you know that to grieve is not to be trapped in the past, but to remain open to love's ongoing presence, even as it changes form.
May you find rest in the knowledge that healing is not forgetting, but weaving memory into the fabric of your days in a way that sustains rather than wounds. May you allow grief to settle into its rightful place—not as something to be feared, but as something to be welcomed, for it is a sign that your love was real, that what was shared mattered, that your heart has not closed itself off to the beauty of what once was.
May you feel the quiet presence of those you have lost in the gentle unfolding of your life. May they meet you in the whisper of wind through trees, in the hush of morning light, in the small and unexpected moments that remind you that love, once given, does not vanish. May you sense their nearness in the kindness of a stranger, in the warmth of a familiar place, in the unguarded joy that catches you unaware.
May you never believe that moving forward requires leaving behind. May you move forward carrying all that love has given you, holding it not as weight, but as light, not as sorrow alone, but as something sacred. May you allow yourself to grow around the loss, not by diminishing its meaning, but by allowing it to deepen you, to widen your heart, to make you more alive to the fragile, beautiful gift of life.
May you come to see that grief and love walk hand in hand, that tears and laughter are not enemies but companions, that sorrow and gratitude can dwell together in the same breath. May you find the courage to grieve fully, knowing that in doing so, you are giving love the honor it deserves. And in time, may you come to know that the ones you have lost are never truly lost, for they remain in the way you love, in the way you live, in the way your heart has been shaped by their presence.
I love You,
Alma
