I can’t talk about grief. Here’s why.

2026 has been a difficult year.

As the leaves begin to turn their unique shades of amber, copper, and maroon, I find myself wondering what’s left to let go of.

It’s a favorite practice of mine and with clients each autumn: asking, “What needs to be left behind?” In this season, nature seems to reward a slowing down of our efforts, a gentle re-focusing on only that which is most important, and an acknowledgement that sometimes even leaves feel too heavy to carry.

But already I’m afraid I’ve let go of so much in the last 9 months.

I am now officially a “grandorphan”. My maternal grandmother passed away Easter weekend after a bout of pneumonia that left her hospitalized for weeks. My paternal grandfather passed away two months later, only days before his 90th birthday.

A month ago, a contract role became my only income stream as I said good-bye to a full-time position. A shaken identity, a loss of health benefits, and a necessary adjustment to timelines I’d been building in my life were just some of the repercussions.

Less than two weeks ago, I was forced to compassionately euthanize my pet and confidante of the last 8 years. She has been my “safe place” through trials, tribulations, and all kinds of change since I was 25. The foundation of my life feels rocky without her.

Needless to say, loss has been a near-present theme for me this year. The grief that comes with it, as it grows and expands and builds, is beyond what I’ve found the English language can express.

I can’t talk about the grief. It feels too heavy, too undefined, too easy to mispronounce. What I can try to do, however, is talk about what comes after it.

After every major loss in my life — through periods of unemployment, the ending of relationships, or the death of a loved one — has come a moment of reckoning, of transformation, and of growth.

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Across many ancient philosophies, there is this notion of detachment, a sign of true awakening. The belief goes that if you don’t let yourself become hopelessly attached to something — an outcome or a person, for instance — you will distance yourself from the possibility of also attaching your self-worth to that thing’s existence in your life.

On my own journey of self-discovery, I’ve always found this notion… well, difficult. In the midst of grieving, in particular, and as I begin to re-shape how the chapter of my life following that loss might look, I don’t find solace in the belief that the thing I’ve lost didn’t matter. Instead, I remember just how damn much that person, place, or thing meant to me.

I also notice a recurring thought — one I’ve experienced constantly over the last couple of weeks in particular — where I wonder to myself if being happy is appropriate, considering I’m grieving too. “Is this fair to what I lost?” That title, that relationship, that soul connection— it meant so much to me. Wouldn’t it only be right for me to suffer a little longer in its honor?

And the only truth I can find to that answer is the piece of growth I gained after this most recent loss. First, there is no fairness in grief. When you lose a relationship you cherished or a part of you that shaped who you’ve become, there is no right way to handle the emotions that I can’t even begin to describe with words.

I giggled at cousins’ jokes sitting in the pews at my grandfather’s funeral. It helped us all begin to process that loss. I sobbed when, a couple of days after she’d passed, I attempted to clean out Penny’s food and water bowls. I let those feelings out and then I got up and was able to carry on.

I repeat: there is no fairness in grief, including how it’s responded to. So long as you aren’t hurting yourself or others, your way of processing the loss can absolutely be the right way.

Second, there is no heroism in being unhappy for the rest of your life. This is a complex statement. I acknowledge that it may sound like I’m calling out those who struggle with depression. But as someone who has lived with and loved individuals with that struggle personally, I’m saying what I do from a place of deep, deep understanding and compassion.

While there is no shame in your “grief timeline” (whatever that means) looking differently from others’, there is also no shame in picking back up your life after loss. You are allowed to grieve, let go, grieve, and let go a major loss in your life as often and as inconsistently as you need to.

I know I still have tears to shed about those pieces of me that I’ve lost this year. And I’m OK with that. I also know that I have so much I want to still do with my time. I want to laugh, I want to play, and I want above all else to create. If I’m constantly asking “Would they be OK if they knew I was thinking about something else?”, I won’t have any cognitive energy left to make.

— — —

When I think of my grandma, my grandpa, and that sweet confidante of mine — all lost this year — I know that the only disservice I could do to their legacy and memory is to stop trying. I also think of the version of me from just a few years ago, who would be ecstatic to see how far I’ve come. If I give up, sink into my grief, or let it define how I take these next steps, only then might they be disappointed.

Who I’m becoming every day can still be shaped by my grief, but because I’m someone who recognizes how beautiful and short our lives truly are, I also must be shaped by the other qualities I’ve chosen to define my life: love, compassion, and play.

Grief can exist as long as it needs to in your life, however hard it may be to define. It may even swallow you whole for a while. While I can’t put it to words, I have at least been able to use it to teach me something meaningful: My grief alone is not a tribute to those I’ve lost this year. I choose to also respect the time I have left, deeply attached to everything I love and everything I still hope to become.