The Many Faces of Grief

Grief is a funny thing. It doesn’t always arrive at the death of a loved one, though that form is perhaps the most universally recognised. Grief can come in waves—unexpected, slow-burning, or sudden and sharp. It can catch you off guard, curling into your bones when you least expect it. And it can arise from far more than loss through death. Sometimes, we grieve the person we once were. Or the one we hoped to be.

In my own life, grief has worn many faces. My earliest experience of grief was shaped by the belief that my mother had passed away during child birth. That story was true for me until I was 19. This was when my father passed away very suddenly—and with that shock came another: I discovered my mother was, in fact, alive. We reconnected and began building a relationship. But twelve years later, I lost her again. In a strange way, I mourned her twice. It’s a funny thing, to have to bury both of your parents before the age of 35.

One of the most complex forms of grief I’ve encountered was the grief that followed my neurodivergent diagnosis. On one hand, there was relief. Finally—an explanation for all the things that never quite added up. But almost immediately, it was followed by sorrow, anger and grief. Grief for the years lost in confusion, for the opportunities missed, for the systems that weren’t built with someone like me in mind. I mourned the time I spent trying to fit into boxes I didn’t even realise were misaligned with who I truly am.

And then there is the grief of lost dreams. Letting go of my dream of being part of a particular sector in the way I imagined it. I entered that space with hope, idealism, and a fire to make change. I believed in its mission. But what I didn’t expect was the discrimination I would face within it—the subtle exclusions, the overt harm, the painful contradictions between the values espoused and the actions experienced. To grieve a dream is to grieve a version of the future that once felt certain.

And yet, even as I grieve the loss of that vision, I hold pride in the leap of faith I took to pursue it. It was my dream, and I honoured it. I learned. I grew. I met incredible people. I faced truths I wasn’t expecting and unearthed strengths I didn’t know I had. And while the outcome may not have matched the dream I once held, I still believe—just in a different form now. Not as I imagined it, but perhaps exactly as it needed to unfold. Maybe that, too, is the lesson.

And grief, while unwelcome, has also been a teacher.

It has stripped me down and pointed me back to myself. It has forced me to ask: Who am I without that role? That dream? That mask? What do I actually value? What does healing look like, not just on the surface but deep in the nervous system, in the body, in the unseen spaces?

Through grief, I have found gifts.

The gift of clarity. Of not wasting time pretending. The gift of tenderness—for myself and for others moving through invisible loss. The gift of reverence—for those who have passed and for the pieces of myself I have buried along the way.

Grief invites us to be honest. It doesn’t care for facades. And if we let it, it can remake us—gritty, soft, wise, and more ourselves than we’ve ever been.

So if you're grieving—not just a person, but a path, a version of yourself, a belief, or a dream—know that you're not alone. Your grief is valid. Your sorrow is sacred. And in its slow alchemy, something true and beautiful may yet be born.