Grief Doesn’t End, It Just Changes Shape
Reflections on love, loss, and the echoes that linger
Grief is a shape-shifting asshat. It twists through your life, sometimes soft and wistful, other times piercing and unbearable. My mom’s passing taught me that grief doesn’t have stages like they tell us it does. Nope. It’s not a straight path, but a winding, looping, twisting, swooping rollercoaster. Here’s what I’ve learned about love, regret, and the echoes that linger.
My relationship with my mom was rocky when I was young. We clashed often, and for a long time, I didn’t see we’d ever come to terms. But by the time I hit my 40s I’d begun to understand our relationship in a new way. I could finally find empathy and gratitude for what she had done for me, something I hadn’t been able to feel in my teen years. I could see the sacrifices she made, the challenges of the life she’d found herself in, and especially the ways we had both tried and failed to connect. I found a fresher understanding, one that was gentler, more compassionate.
When her health began to decline, I visited her knowing it might be the last time. That trip was emotional and raw. We both felt it — the unspoken understanding that this might be our final time together. We shared stories, laughs, and the silent apologies of days gone by. As I hugged her before I left, I tried to hold onto the warmth of that moment, the shared love we had found after so many years of misunderstanding and distance.
On the plane home, regret crept in. Should I have said more? Should I have stayed? My life waited for me at home, a job and responsibilities. I told myself I’d come back in a month or so, but in my heart, I knew she might be gone before I could.
I called often, hoping to hold those fragile threads of connection. But then the call came. Mom had entered hospice, and my sister said I needed to come now. I booked a flight, desperate to hold her hand one more time, but I was too late. I walked into her apartment, and the emptiness hit me like a wave. She was gone, and I hadn’t been there to say one last goodbye.
That grief, that self-blame, has stayed with me. It flares up unexpectedly, like a ghost tapping my shoulder when I least expect it. The “what ifs” and “if onlys” slip into my consciousness when I least expect it. I regret the years we lost and those we reclaimed too late, but I try to come back to the gratitude, too — that we found each other, even if only for a few short years.
Today I can hold both my mom and my younger self in compassion for all the twists and turns of our relationship, knowing we did the best we could with the cards we had.
I’ll tell you something else. If anyone tries to tell you grief has specific stages in lock-step order, know that’s just bullshit. Grief is a bastard rollercoaster, a tangled mess, and it’s never really over. It just changes shape. And that, somehow, is the only thing you can count on.