Sharing Our Loss and Grief
There are times when the crushing weight of grief threatens to break us—when it feels as though our minds are unraveling and we are imprisoned by sorrow, forced to bear its burden alone for what seems like a lifetime. Even with those closest to us, like our friends, family, the partners and children we cherish deeply, we often cannot bring ourselves to open up, to let them see the aching vulnerability within.
We grew up longing for support during our first devastating encounters with loss, and that unrelenting loneliness clung to us, shaping the fabric of our lives. As a young adolescent, stepping into adulthood, I found myself in profound solitude, even in the company of my dear friends. My smile shone brightly, yet inside, a heavy cloud darkened my world. My grief, smothered and hidden away, surfaced as depression, anxiety, and an isolating sense of “otherness.” In therapy, I spoke of my co-dependent relationship with my mother, a failed marriage, and a failed career—never fully connecting these broken pieces to the grief at my core: the loss of my father, my anchor and sanctuary. The moment he drew his final breath, the feeling of safety vanished, though it took me years to realize its absence. I thought God had cursed me and that I was straddling two worlds—one foot planted here, the other drifting in a realm of superstition, dissociation, and relentless sadness.
It took me more than forty years to summon the courage to confront the unspeakable agony of losing my Daddy—to finally allow myself to feel that pain and sit with it, face to face. For so long, I believed no one around me could ever truly hear me or hold space for my suffering with genuine compassion. When I first let myself grieve my father’s death, the reaction from loved ones was disbelief. “How, after four decades, can the loss still cut so deeply? How can you weep as though he left you just yesterday?” their words said, or their silence implied. Undeterred, I lit a candle, placed my father’s picture where I could see it, and allowed myself to cry in front of my children. It was in those moments of raw openness that my healing began—a gentle shift in my body as the tightly wound anxiety began to soften and grief finally rose to the surface, longing for acknowledgment.
Now, with a heart cracked open but healing, I want to share that journey with the world. I have created this space; a safe, gentle refuge where we can gather in our grief and discover the beginnings of healing. Although the path of mourning is one we must each walk in our own way, we do not have to carry this pain alone. This is why I am so deeply enthusiastic about the power of communal healing, which begins the moment we decide to share our sorrow with others. There is strength in unity, and grace in vulnerability.
If you feel compelled to pour your grief into words, my blog is open to you. Whether you wish to share your name or remain anonymous, it would be my profound honor to support your healing by bringing your story to others. Writing has been a lifeline for me—a way to transform pain into hope, especially for those burdened by deep wounds. In giving voice to my suffering, I have found solace, and I honestly believe you can, too.
I invite you, from the depths of my heart, to join me on this journey. Share your grief as part of your ongoing healing. There is no shame in honoring our loved ones through the written word. As long as we have breath in our bodies, we can keep their memories alive, lighting the way forward—even in our darkest nights.
With heartfelt love,
Hissi