To Grieve or Not to Grieve?
The question lingers: To grieve or not to grieve? But it's not really a choice. Grief appears unwanted, like an earthquake, shaking everything we thought was solid. It's the sudden loss of someone we love, the slow decay of a relationship, or the empty space where love used to live. It's realizing the future we hoped for is gone and that life will never be the same again.
Grief is a painful and relentless journey. It often begins with shock and denial, a refusal to believe what's happened. Then comes anger, fueled by the unfairness of it all. Bargaining follows, with desperate hopes to change the outcome. Depression sinks in, bringing a deep sadness that isolates. Finally, there's acceptance, not peace, but a quiet acknowledgment of a new reality we never wanted.
We often tell ourselves to move on, to hide our pain behind distractions, and to compare our grief to others. "They went through worse," we think, trying to downplay our feelings. But grief isn't something you can measure or rank. It's a personal journey, one only your heart can lead you through.
We try to outrun the suffering that comes with loss, to silence the echoes of laughter that now mock us with their absence. We tell ourselves to be strong and stoic and simply "move on." But can we truly choose not to grieve?
David Kessler reminds us, "Anger is pain's bodyguard." It is a fierce, protective shield we raise against the unbearable vulnerability of loss. We rage against the unfairness, the cruelty, the gaping hole that can never be filled. But beneath that anger, the raw, bleeding wound of a heart torn apart demands to be acknowledged. And in that wound lies the undeniable truth: grief is love's echo. It is the measure of our connection, the proof that we have loved deeply, thoroughly, and without reservation.
The Tao, a Chinese spiritual philosophy rooted in ancient wisdom, teaches us to accept life as it is, not as we wish it to be. Through this lens, grief is not a detour but a sacred passage, an unavoidable journey into our deepest vulnerability. To resist it is to resist life itself. This is where my book, Don't Chase Your Dreams, Allow Them to Come to You, takes on a deeper meaning: it's about releasing attachment to dreams, surrendering the illusion of control, and trusting the natural flow of life and death. Like the buffalo on the open plains, who instinctively run into the storm rather than away from it, we, too, must face our pain head-on. The buffalo know that they shorten their exposure by charging through the storm. As humans, we often avoid our grief, trying to outrun it—but this only keeps us suffering longer. True healing begins when we find the courage to move through the storm, not around it.
To grieve is not a weakness but an act of profound courage. It acknowledges the fragility of love and the inevitability of loss. It walks through the fire, knowing that a new self will emerge on the other side, forged in the depth of sorrow. Grief may isolate us in its initial shock, but it also opens a doorway to a deeper understanding of ourselves and of the invisible threads that bind us to one another.
So the question remains: To grieve or not to grieve?
The answer, ultimately, is that we cannot choose. Grief chooses us. It demands to be felt, honoured, and integrated into our lives. So let the tears flow, let the anger rage, and let the sorrow wash over you. You will find a strength you never knew existed in the depths of your pain. You will discover the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of love.
And in that journey, you will find your way back to yourself, a self capable of profound compassion, quiet wisdom, and love that endures.
