types of grief, the healing, the hurt, and the lost.
Anticipatory Grief, Complicated Grief, Chronic and Delayed Grief, Distorted Grief, Cumulative Grief, Disenfranchised Grief (Ambiguous)*, Traumatic Grief, and Inhibited Grief.
Losing my sister and father in the same year was like the sky breaking in two—half of it gone to twilight, the other half to night. They were my compass and my constant, and when they left, it felt as though the world tilted, leaving me to find my balance in unfamiliar terrain.
But grief, as heavy as it is, holds a strange kind of beauty. It teaches you the depth of love by showing you the shape of its absence. It forces you to remember not just the loss but the life—every laugh shared, every story told, every quiet moment of knowing you belonged to them, and they to you.
I carry them now in the small things: the songs they loved, the words they used, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves just like it did that one perfect day we all shared. Their absence has made me more present, more aware of how fleeting and fragile and beautiful this life is.
Grief, I’ve learned, is not a wound to be healed but a scar to be worn—a mark of love so deep it reaches beyond time. And in that, I find a quiet kind of peace. They are gone, but they are everywhere. In the memories, in the echoes, in the person I am because of them. Even in their leaving, they teach me how to live.
Hurt
Suicide is a thief—ruthless and merciless. It sneaks into lives, whispering lies that convince people they are alone, that their pain is insurmountable, that the world would be better off without them. It doesn’t just take one life; it leaves devastation in its wake, a crater of unanswered questions, shattered hearts, and guilt that eats away at those left behind.
I am angry at the silence that surrounds it, the stigma that keeps people from screaming for help when they need it most. Angry at the systems that fail, at the underfunded mental health programs, the dismissive glances, the platitudes offered instead of real solutions. I’m furious at the way society brushes it aside, treating it like a shameful secret instead of the epidemic it is.
And I’m angry at the cruel irony—that those who succumb to suicide often believed they were a burden, not realizing the unbearable weight they leave for those who loved them. It’s a rage that burns because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that they felt so alone, so broken, when so many would have fought tooth and nail to pull them back from the edge if only they had known.
Anger might not bring them back, but it can light a fire—a demand for change, for better resources, for open conversations. It’s a refusal to let the thief win again. It’s a promise to fight for the living, to make sure no one else is convinced by those lies, to say, "You matter," loud enough that it drowns out the whispers of despair.
Lost
Being lost without my sister and my father feels like wandering through a dense, endless fog, where familiar landmarks have vanished, and the air is too thick to breathe. They were my anchors, my compass points, the steady hands that held me when life felt too overwhelming. Now, without them, it feels like I’m adrift in a sea of memories, trying to cling to fragments of who they were and what they meant to me.
My sister was my confidante, the one who understood me without words, who could turn my darkest days into moments of light with her laughter. My father was my protector, my guide, the voice of wisdom that always seemed to know just what to say. Without them, the world feels emptier, quieter, like the color has drained from the edges of everything.
Some days, I move through life on autopilot, pretending I’m fine because that’s what’s expected, even though the weight of their absence presses against my chest. Other days, the grief crashes over me like a tidal wave, pulling me under, and I wonder how I’ll ever find my footing again.
I miss them in the big, aching ways, but also in the small, quiet moments—the way they filled a room with their presence, the inside jokes that no one else will ever understand, the comfort of knowing they were always just a call away. Now, there’s only silence where their voices used to be.
I am lost, but in this lostness, I am also searching—for meaning, for healing, for a way to carry them forward. They are gone, but they are still here in the way they shaped me, in the love they gave me, in the memories that feel like both a gift and a wound. And maybe, just maybe, in the act of finding my way again, I’ll discover a new way to keep them close.
Grief is a paradox—achingly beautiful and unbearably cruel, a wound that never fully heals but somehow becomes part of who you are. It’s the price of love, the echo of all the moments you shared with someone who is no longer here, a reminder of how deeply they mattered.
It hurts in ways you didn’t know were possible, cutting into the quietest corners of your soul. It’s in the spaces they once filled—the empty chair at the table, the silence where their laughter used to be, the absence that feels louder than their presence ever was. Grief is cruel because it makes you realize how much of your world was built around them, and now you have to rebuild, brick by painful brick, with nothing but their memory as your guide.
But grief is beautiful, too, because it’s love that refuses to let go. It’s in the way their favorite song still brings tears to your eyes, the way their words echo in your head when you face something they would have understood. It’s the stories you tell to keep them alive, the way you carry them with you in everything you do. Grief is proof that they mattered, that they changed you, that their life was woven into yours in ways that cannot be undone.
And yet, it’s relentless. It shows up when you least expect it—in the smell of their cologne on a stranger, in the familiar way someone else says their name. It’s both a knife to the heart and a hand holding yours, reminding you of what you lost and what you were lucky enough to have.
Grief doesn’t fade; it transforms. It becomes part of you, like a scar that aches when it rains but reminds you of a storm you survived. It’s painful and beautiful, a love story written in tears, one that never truly ends.
Alternatively, perhaps the death was someone others think you shouldn’t or wouldn’t grieve for, say of a former spouse or a gang member, or even a same-sex partner. Any time a loss isn’t recognized, or you don’t feel seen or heard in how you’re feeling and grieving, the result may be disenfranchised grief.
Note that disenfranchised grief can also occur in cases when a loss isn’t due to actual death, but rather the result of a traumatic brain injury, substance abuse, or a mental health condition that alters a relationship significantly.
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