Years have passed, but the grief lives still!

As I go through July, I still feel it—this deep wave of old, pent-up grief. I realize even now how much still needs processing and healing.

And it's not just my brother. It’s been 15 years since my Dad passed and 9 years since Mom passed.

I still miss their presence like crazy. It doesn’t help that both my mirror —and my personality—remind me of my Dad (With the passing years, I am looking more and more like my dad.)

And some personality traits, thinking patterns and habits feels like: Is it me or Mom?

A bundled knot of loss.

Sometimes, I can’t even tell anymore which grief is which.

It feels like a bundled knot of loss—for my parents, my brother, and also……grief for the country I left behind,…grief over global events and all the heartache in the world,…grief over how fast things are changing and how little control we seem to have.

Grief and loss for all the life that is gone!

We don't talk enough about grief

Why am I talking about grief today?

Not to vent or add to your stress.

That’s never my intention. I’m writing because most of us don’t talk about grief—not really.

We talk about births, weddings, new homes, promotions, and prayers when someone is unwell.

But once someone is gone, we stop talking about what it means to live with their absence. The empty spaces. The little things that trigger memories.

Life seems to demand that we move on—as if nothing happened.

We do not give ourselves permission to really grieve and miss them.

I understand why.

Feeling grief is exhausting.

Most of us are afraid that if we allow ourselves to cry, we may never stop.

So we stay busy.

We distract ourselves. We become productive.

And from the outside, it looks like we've moved on.

Sometimes we have.

Sometimes we've only become better at hiding our pain.

How I have learned to grieve

How do I process grief?

I’m not much of a talker when it comes to tender things. Even with those close to me, vulnerability doesn’t come easily.

But my strength lies in introspection. I journal. I connect inward.

In the safety of my private space, I allow it all to rise. I cry. I write. I grieve.

Something my sister, taught me has stayed with me—Set a time limit.

Grieving is essential, but left open-ended, it can pull us into a loop of sadness that becomes harder to escape. So I do it as often as my body asks me to.

I slow life down when needed, and I sit with my feelings.

I support myself. Because I believe—more than anyone else, we are our best companions in grief. Yes, people can support us.

But the deepest comfort comes when we show up for ourselves—with gentleness, with presence, with compassion.

Have I healed?

I ask myself this every year.

Have I healed?

The answer isn't simple.

Do I still miss them?

Every single day.

Do I still cry sometimes?

Yes.

Does my heart still ache?

Absolutely.

But something else has changed too.

Now when I think of them...

I smile.

I feel gratitude.

I remember conversations that once made me laugh.

I feel their love far more often than I feel the pain of losing them.

Perhaps healing isn't the absence of grief.

Perhaps healing is when love slowly becomes bigger than loss.

What grief has taught me

The older I become, the more I realise that nothing in life is permanent.

People come.

People leave.

One day, each of us will make that same journey.

That thought no longer frightens me the way it once did.

Instead, it reminds me to love more generously.

To connect with those around me.

To hug a little longer.

To forgive a little faster.

To notice ordinary days.

Because one day, today's ordinary moment may become tomorrow's treasured memory.

If you are grieving...

Please know this.

There is no right timeline. No perfect way. No finish line.

Cry if you need to. Write if it helps.

Sit quietly. Pray. Walk. Talk.

Or simply breathe through today.

Whatever your grief looks like...

please don't carry it alone.

And don't believe that because years have passed, you should somehow be "over it."

Love doesn't work that way.

Neither does grief.

And I feel that's okay.

Because grief, in its own quiet way, reminds us that we loved deeply.

And what a beautiful thing that is.