The Abyss of Grief—When the World Shatters

I wake up, and for a brief, flickering second, everything is normal. Then, like a wave crashing over me, I remember. My child is gone. And the weight of that truth pulls me under, a gravity so strong I cannot resist.

Grief isn’t just sadness. It’s obliteration. It’s waking up and realizing the world I once knew no longer exists. My home, once filled with laughter, now echoes with silence. My body, once a source of comfort to my child, now feels like a cage, holding a pain too big for it to contain.

I sit in bed, staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the sheer unfairness of it all. The air feels too thick to breathe. Every movement requires effort. I wonder how people keep going after something like this. I wonder if I even want to

The Unseen Loss
Allowing the Pain
To the reader:
Learning Tools From This Blogs:
1. The Permission to Grieve Exercise
2. The Gentle Check-In
3. Creating a Grief Journal
Guided Meditation: Holding Yourself in Grief

The Unseen Loss

Grief is more than just losing a person—it’s losing the version of myself that existed with them. The mother I was when my child was here is gone, too. And in her place is someone I do not recognize. Someone broken, raw, unmoored.

Friends and family say things like, “Be strong,” or “They wouldn’t want you to suffer.” But they don’t understand. Strength isn’t an option. Breathing is an effort. Functioning feels impossible.

There’s a strange expectation to “cope,” as if grief is something to be managed. But in these first days, first weeks, there is no managing. There is only surviving. And even that feels cruel.

Allowing the Pain

I have nothing to give today. Nothing to offer the world. My job, my obligations, my responsibilities—they all feel meaningless. The only thing I can do is sit in this grief and let it consume me.

Maybe that’s the only way forward—to stop resisting, to stop pretending I can be okay. Maybe the only thing I can do right now is let myself be shattered.

Because the truth is, I am shattered. And maybe that’s exactly where I need to start.

To the reader:

If you are here, if you are feeling this depth of grief, you are not alone. I won’t offer you false hope or clichés. I will only say this: You are allowed to feel everything. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have answers. Just breathe. Just exist. That is enough for today.

Learning Tools From This Blogs:

Grief is an overwhelming force, and in the beginning, it can feel impossible to navigate. These tools are not meant to ‘fix’ grief—because grief is not something to be fixed. Instead, they offer a way to honor your emotions, create space for your pain, and gently begin the process of existing within this new reality.

1. The Permission to Grieve Exercise

Find a quiet space where you won’t be interrupted.
Place a hand over your heart and take a deep breath.

Say to yourself (aloud or in your mind):
‘I give myself permission to grieve in my own way, in my own time.’
‘I do not have to be strong. I only have to be present with what I feel.’
‘My grief is love that has nowhere to go. I will allow myself to feel it.’

Repeat as many times as you need.

2. The Gentle Check-In

Each day, ask yourself:

What is one small thing I can do for myself today? (Even if it’s just drinking water or stepping outside for a moment.)
What is one feeling I am experiencing right now? (Name it without judgment: sadness, anger, numbness, exhaustion.)
What would I tell a dear friend who was feeling what I’m feeling right now?

There are no right or wrong answers—just an invitation to notice what is present.

3. Creating a Grief Journal

Keep a notebook or use a notes app to write freely about your emotions.

If writing is too much, start by listing words that describe your feelings.

Let it be unfiltered. There is no need for structure—this space is just for you

Guided Meditation: Holding Yourself in Grief

Find a quiet place where you can sit or lie down comfortably. Close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath.

Imagine yourself standing at the edge of a vast ocean. The sky above is gray, the waves are wild, the wind is howling. This ocean is your grief—deep, endless, overwhelming.

For a moment, you resist. You want the storm to stop, to disappear, to make sense. But grief is not meant to be controlled.

So instead of fighting, you step into the water. Slowly, gently, you let yourself be held by the waves. You don’t try to swim. You don’t try to fix. You simply let yourself float.

With each breath, the water begins to soften, supporting you rather than drowning you. The waves still come, but they do not pull you under.

You place a hand on your heart. Feel it beating beneath your palm.

You are still here. You are still breathing.

Whisper to yourself:
‘I am allowed to grieve.’
‘I am allowed to feel lost.’
‘I do not have to be okay today.’
‘I only have to be.’

Let these words settle into your heart. Feel the warmth of your own presence.

Stay here as long as you need. When you are ready, take another deep breath, gently open your eyes, and return to the present moment.

Grief will come in waves. But you are learning to float.

Created By: Bethany Orrick

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