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The Grief That Has No Name

—or the many faces it wears

Grief has a way of showing up in places we least expect.

Sometimes, it bursts through the door with heartbreak and finality.

Other times, it slips in quietly—unnoticed at first—until we realise something inside us has changed.


Lately, I’ve found myself walking alongside grief in ways I didn’t fully see coming.


There is the grief for lives lost too soon.

Not my own personal loss, yet one that shook me deeply.

A witnessing that changed me.

A knowing I didn’t have before—and can’t unknow now.

There’s a quiet sorrow in losing the luxury of wondering,

“What would I do in a moment like that?”

Because now I know.

And that knowing carries weight.


There is the grief of endings—of stepping away from a role, a workplace, an identity I’ve worn for years.

Even when the decision is right, and chosen, and aligned…

there is still a sense of loss.

Of routine. Of familiarity. Of the way I was known in that space.


And then, the tenderest griefs of all—

the ones without clear names.

The grief of shifting identity.

The quiet ache of realising you are no longer who you once were.

The disorientation of becoming someone new, without a map for how to get there.

And then there is the grief of holding space for others while quietly navigating your own.

It’s not always named as grief, but it carries a weight.

To witness someone else’s heartbreak and offer comfort,

even when your own heart feels heavy.

To stay steady, to show up,

to be the one others turn to—

while parts of you ache in silence.


It’s a quiet kind of exhaustion,

one that’s not always visible,

but felt deep in the bones.


Sometimes, the grief isn’t only yours— but the cost of carrying what others cannot yet name for themselves.

Grief doesn’t only come with death.

It comes with transformation.

It comes with truth.

It comes when the ground beneath you moves and you’re asked to find your footing again.


It is layered. Complex. Non-linear.

It resists tidy categories.

It doesn’t care for timelines.

And it doesn’t always come with casseroles and sympathy cards.


But it is still grief.


I’m learning to name it when I can,

and to honour it even when I can’t.

To let it shape me without rushing it away.

To recognise that even in sorrow, there is beauty.

Even in loss, there is love.


So if you, too, are walking through a grief that’s hard to define—

a change, a goodbye, a sudden knowing that shifted everything—

you’re not alone.


Your grief is welcome here.

It doesn’t need to be justified or understood.

It only needs to be honoured.

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