My Grief Journey

It was 2 o’clock on a weekday afternoon, and I was halfway through a bottle of red wine. It wasn’t the first, and it wouldn’t be the last. My dad—my hero, my person—was dead after a brutal battle with cancer. And I was in hell.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was between freelance gigs with way too much time on my hands. Everyone around me was busy living their happy, “normal” lives—getting married, having kids, climbing the ladder in their careers. Some were winning Emmys, Tonys, Oscars for the work they’d been doing while I was focused on taking care of my dying dad. I couldn’t have felt more estranged, isolated, and alone.

What made it worse was that most people I knew hadn’t experienced a loss like mine. Friends tried to help, but they just DID. NOT. GET. IT.

And how could they? You can’t fully understand until you’re unwillingly dragged into this unenviable “Dead Loved Ones” club (that we all join eventually—like it or not.)

I didn’t make it easy on anyone, either. Because I didn’t make it easy on myself, I couldn’t just  “get over it” like we’re told we’re supposed to. “Move on. They’d want you to live your life!”  Yada Yada Yada. 

I was quick to tears and quicker to anger. Parties and events became terrifying because people didn’t know I was a walking shell of a human being. The simple question, “How are you?” was impossible to answer.

How am I? Not Good. Awful. Pretty Bad, actually.  I am unmoored, untethered, lost in space. I honestly don’t know who the hell I am anymore. My anchor and north star are gone. So that’s how I am.

I wasn’t much fun at parties…

Then, within that same year, I went through a soul-crushing breakup. And it didn’t stop there. More people started dying—first, another family member, then a friend lost their life to suicide. It was unreal, surreal, and devastating. The waves of grief kept pounding me, dragging me under. I was drowning.

I reached a point where I had no choice. I had to find a practice to make peace with the pain and to create some space from this gaping wound that was eating me alive.

Because at the end of the day, grief, as overwhelming as it is, is just love that knows no bounds… It is the connective tissue to our memories and to the “other side” (wherever that is).  And I didn’t want to lose that connection to my loved ones. I just needed it to stop hurting so damn much. 

I learned that I needed to stop fighting the pain because my struggle against it caused at least as much misery as the loss itself.  I had to learn to befriend my grief and stop trying to hide from it, outrun it, outdrink it, or outdrug it. Because it was always there, waiting for me anyway.  I couldn’t win in a battle of wills. Grief will have her day. 

So, I forged a new path where my grief, which was a part of me, didn’t have to be denied. I began a practice of sending love to my grief, rage, and despair. Slowly but surely, I was no longer drowning but surfing the waves of grief. Big waves and small became familiar friends that I welcomed and now even enjoyed. 

Sometimes, I gently touch my grief to say hello to those I’ve lost. I smile at the soft tears when I transport myself inside my dad’s huge embrace, and I can feel his love alive in every cell of my being.


My grief is part of my DNA, and within it lives my dad, my mom, and all the many loved ones I’ve lost. I carry them with me, always. And I am more than ok with that.