A Note on Grief

Hi everyone, and happy 2026. If you’re anything like me, today probably feels like the 279th of January. January has always been notorious for stretching on forever, but to be fair, it has a tough act to follow. December leaves us with merry treats, and collective cheer, and then January arrives asking us to get our sh*t together again.

This January feels a little different, though. Lately, it feels like grief is in the air.

Not always loud or obvious, but present. Heavy in a way that’s hard to name. It feels like many of us are carrying something quietly: the loss of a person, a relationship, a version of ourselves, a future we imagined, a pet who was family, an opportunity that never came back around. And layered on top of that is a more collective grief. One shaped by global uncertainty, political tension, burnout, disconnection, and the sense that the world doesn’t quite feel the way it used to.

Here’s the thing we don’t say enough: grief is not a malfunction. Grief is the price we pay for love. If you dared to care, about a person, an animal, a dream, a life you were building, grief is simply the evidence of that bond.

Something I notice in my day to day work and own experience with grief, is that what makes grief so painful isn’t just the loss itself; it’s how alone people feel inside it. Our culture is uncomfortable with grief. We rush it and try to tidy it up. We offer timelines and silver linings far too soon. But grief does not operate on a schedule, and it does not respond well to being minimized.

From a psychodynamic perspective, grief is not just about what was lost; it’s about what that loss stirs inside us. Loss activates earlier attachment wounds, unresolved separations, and past experiences of abandonment or instability. This is why grief can feel disproportionate, disorganizing, or confusing. You may find yourself reacting not only to this loss, but to many losses layered beneath it.

Grief also lives in the relationship between what was lost and what remains internalized. We don’t simply lose people or dreams; we carry them inside us. In that way, mourning becomes the slow, nonlinear process of renegotiating that internal relationship. Letting go of the physical presence while holding onto meaning, memory, and connection in a new form.

This is why grief work in therapy often looks quiet and repetitive. We return to the same stories while we circle the same feelings. Not because we’re stuck, but because integration takes time. The psyche needs multiple passes to metabolize loss.

Sometimes coping looks like talking about the loss, again and again. Sometimes it looks like crying unexpectedly in the grocery store. Sometimes it looks like needing more rest, more space, more patience with yourself than usual. And sometimes it looks like joy returning in small, confusing bursts, alongside the pit of sadness in your stomach.

Yes, both can exist. No, you’re not betraying your grief by laughing.

If you’re grieving, here a few gentle reminders from a psychologist who is working on how to befriend her own grief:

• You don’t have to explain or justify your grief to anyone.

• There is no “right” way to mourn.

• You are allowed to seek comfort, connection, and care, whenever, even if others think you “should be fine by now.”

  
  

Most importantly, grief softens when it is witnessed. When it is allowed to unfold without judgment. When it is met with curiosity instead of urgency. And when we stop asking, “Why am I still grieving?” and begin asking, “What is this grief asking of me right now?”

So if you’ve been feeling heavier than usual, or more fragile than you’d like, please consider this is your permission slip to be human. To grieve what was or what never got to be. And to trust that even in grief, something loving is still alive inside you.

Because grief, at its core, is love with nowhere to go.