A friend of mine was heartbroken after the loss of their animal companion. They were distraught and vulnerable—and on top of their grief, they were judging themselves for feeling it so deeply. “It was just a pet,” they said. “This shouldn’t be affecting me this much. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…”
But the truth is, the pain wasn’t just grief—it was layered with shame. And that shame was making everything feel heavier. I listened as they shared stories, and I asked about the bond they had with their beloved pet. We laughed together, and we cried together. I could feel their pain, and honestly, it brought up some of my own losses too.
As a Peer Support Specialist, I gently reminded them: “The depth of your grief shows the depth of your love.” This pet wasn’t just a pet—it was a support animal, someone who had been by their side every day for years. Of course it was going to hurt. It was beautiful to witness a love so deep that the loss could echo that powerfully.
That moment reminded me to offer myself the same compassion. The sadness I’ve felt in my own life has revealed just how deeply I love and care for the people I’ve lost. Someone once asked me why I was still grieving a situation from years ago. My answer was simple: “Because I love them. And I always will.”
Once I stopped fighting my sadness and started accepting it, I learned something important—my job wasn’t to get rid of it or pretend it wasn’t there. My path forward only opened up when I made space for grief to walk beside me.
It took me until my 40s to really begin understanding grief and loss—and of course, I took the hard road. I experienced a loss that brought me to my knees. I barely ate. Depression settled in, and I spent months mostly sleeping. I lost so much weight it became frightening. At that point, it felt like grief was winning. Nothing else seemed to matter.
But here’s the truth: when grief becomes too heavy, asking for help is not weakness. Doing only the bare minimum for a while is not failure. Grief doesn’t arrive because we’re weak—it shows up because we’re strong enough to face what’s real.
And that reality? It hurts. Grief is raw and tender at the same time. But allowing ourselves to feel it fully is one of the most courageous things we can do.
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