Grief, what now? · Real Men Real Style Community

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Grief, what now?

Yesterday I buried my mother, she was 84 years old and had been sick for a while. It was expected, but still a shock when it happened. I'm not there yet, but I know it will hit me. The grief! The sorrow! And being me (I'm a list-and-plans guy), this is me trying to find a way through it all. I write this for me, but maybe it can help others.

I believe grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a landscape you are suddenly forced to live in, one that looks different every day. When a mother dies, the loss cuts deeper than the absence of a person; it is the loss of an anchor, a witness to your life, a voice that knew your name before anyone else did. Grief, in this sense, is not only sorrow—it is love with nowhere to go.

Working in a hospital, I've learned that one of the hardest truths about grief is that it does not move in a straight line. It arrives in waves. Some days are quiet and manageable; others feel unbearable for reasons you cannot explain. A smell, a phrase, a moment of silence can bring the weight back instantly. This unpredictability can make people feel broken, as if they are “doing grief wrong.” But grief’s inconsistency is not a failure—it is evidence that the bond mattered.

Sorrow often brings guilt alongside pain. Guilt for words unsaid, for moments of impatience, for not having loved “well enough.” The mind replays scenes, searching for alternate endings. Yet this is a cruel illusion. Relationships are lived forward, not perfected in hindsight. Love is not measured by flawlessness, but by presence over time. Imperfect love is still real love.

Grief also isolates. Others may want to help but feel unsure how; some disappear altogether. Society is uncomfortable with deep sorrow and often rushes toward solutions: “Be strong,” “She wouldn’t want you to be sad,” “Time heals.” These phrases, though well-intended, can feel like erasure. Grief does not need to be fixed. It needs to be witnessed. Sometimes the bravest thing is allowing yourself to say, honestly, “This hurts, and I am not okay.”

I believe healing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean “moving on” as if the loss were a chapter to close. Instead, healing is learning how to carry grief without it crushing you. Over time, the pain may soften, not because the love fades, but because your capacity to hold it grows. The sharp edges dull. The memories that once only hurt may begin to warm you instead.

Sadly, there is no timeline for this process. Anyone who tells you that has not loved deeply enough to know better. Grief demands patience, especially from the person experiencing it. Some days, survival is enough. Some days, getting out of bed is an achievement. These days still count.

In time, grief can also become a quiet teacher. It reminds us of fragility, of what matters, of the depth we are capable of feeling. While it never justifies the loss, it reveals the strength of the bond that caused the pain. To grieve is to testify that a life mattered, and that love did not end with death.

If there is one thing to hold onto, it is this: you do not have to grieve alone, and you do not have to grieve “well.” You only have to grieve honestly. Your sorrow is not a weakness. It is the shadow cast by love, and love like that never truly disappears.

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