the hidden gifts of grief
hear me out
Freshly-bereaved Victoria would have told me to fuck off for saying this—something that three-and-a-half years ago felt less likely than finding a wormhole and accidentally transporting myself to the other side of the galaxy. But I’m going to say it anyway.
There are hidden gifts in grief.
Don’t get me wrong, grief comes with more fuckery than you could ever imagine. The loss is only the beginning—then comes the sadness, the yearning, the sleepless nights, the surprising physical symptoms, the fights, the ghosting…
In the early days, grief triggers are everywhere. A song, a smell, a TV show, a recipe, the sight of a mother and daughter, or a happy couple, or two friends catching up over coffee, a careless word from someone who has no way of knowing what you’re going through. All these things can send you into a grief tailspin when you least expect it. My cousin’s wife told me that after her father died, she found herself crying in Marks and Spencer in front of the classic wooly jumpers he used to wear. I haven’t been into a Marks and Spencer since my mum died, but I’m sure if I did, I would cry, too.
When it first happened, I couldn’t ever imagine feeling better ever again. It felt like my life had lost all meaning, and I would never again feel happiness or a sense of purpose. And for many, many months, that was my reality: I was sad, I lacked energy but couldn’t sleep, had no motivation, isolated myself, struggled to focus on work or think about anything other than my mum. I ruminated on the inexplicable circumstances of her death, beat myself up over my regrets, raged at the injustice, asked the universe why someone else’s mum didn’t die instead.
But, as imperceptibly as a plant growing, over time, I began to change. It was so gradual I didn’t even notice at first, but the cyclone of spiralling thoughts and triggers began to lose some of its power, taking up less space in my mind. After three and a half years, it’s more of a passing rainstorm.
That’s not to say I’m “over it” (I don’t know if I ever will be)—I still feel grief every day, and just yesterday, someone sent me a photo that brought on a grief wave so forceful it made my face hurt. Last night, I dreamed about her in a dream too surreal to describe.
But something new is growing out of the rubble of my demolished heart.
My mother’s death taught me so many things, among them, that life is short, sometimes shorter than you expect, and if you put off your dreams until “later”, you may never get around to them. Life is for living now, so it’s worth building a life you love. And that’s why she’s the inspiration behind my new business: I want to create something meaningful, something that brings more love and beauty into the world, just like she did (in quite a literal sense, since she was a beauty therapist). Everything I’m creating—from the Mourning Pages grief journal to my somatics and journaling programme, Grief and the Body—is a monument to her. My Taj Mahal.
I want to acknowledge there’s a certain pressure to make something “productive” from grief, reinforced by griefy Instagram accounts with tens of thousands of followers and subsequent podcasts and book deals. Our society wants a neat happy ending, tied up in a bow. That’s not what this is about. It’s about how grief changes you, alters the fabric of your being. It cracks your heart open, it changes the way you see the world.
Grief is a teacher, and even though if there was anything I could do to bring my mum back I would do it in an instant, I have to reluctantly admit that I am who I am today because of her death. It has made me a better person, kinder and more empathetic. My mum continues to be my guiding light, just as she has always been, but now, I must live my life in her honour, and to do that, I try to follow her example.
Although it’s hard to admit, in a sense, my mother’s death reshaped my sense of purpose—to be a beacon of love for a world in pain. But that hasn’t been the only gift: it has also brought new people into my life, and deepened my relationships with others. It’s taught me how important it is to be there for the people you love, to make memories together, to tell them you love them often. It’s given me wisdom and maturity and the ability to hold space for others’ pain.
If you’re in the early stages of grief, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever feel better, let alone see the gift in your grief. Let this be a message of hope that it does get easier, and yes, grief has gifts in store for you too, if you’ll allow yourself to be open to them. Don’t force yourself to feel better before you’re ready—it will come with time. Let your grief unfold, like a spring bud blooming.
Have you experienced an unexpected “grief gift”? I’d love to read about it.
Share your thoughts in the comments or in the Seven Gates subscriber chat, and let’s continue the conversation.
Mathilde taught me to love Coralie even more and to cherish every moment with her even in the hard times. She made my relationship with Moana stronger too as we discovered new dynamics in our relationship and we learnt to be more supportive of each other through the grief.