Grief strikes like a sudden tempest. It doesn't ask whether you're ready, doesn't knock, and doesn't ask for permission. It just goes in and changes everything. I can still recall the first time I really felt it. Grief is something I had heard about, seen in movies, and read about in books, but nothing can prepare you for the moment it seems like a weight that won't go away. Everything seemed unreal in those early days, as if life had been divided into two timelines: the one before the loss and the one after. I had no idea how I was going to live in this new version of myself. Furthermore, I really didn't want to. The world seemed horribly strange, emptier, and quieter. Time heals, so the saying goes. Perhaps it does. However, they fail to mention that you change with time. It just offers you room to gradually and painfully learn how to bear what has been lost; it doesn't bring it back. There were days when grief came in strong, smashing, drowning waves. On other days, it lingered like a shadow, a vague aching in the background. I laughed and felt bad at times, like joy was a betrayal. On other days, I cried for hours on end and felt absolutely nothing. Grief is not a straight line. It doesn't adhere to schedules or regulations. It is. The thing about this journey that shocked me the most was how grief affects everything, including your relationships, thoughts, and worldview. It causes you to reconsider things you previously took for granted. It forces you to confront your vision of purpose, your fears, and your beliefs. In the silent years following a loss, I started looking for purpose. Not in the sense of "why did this happen?" as these questions frequently have no satisfactory response. What do I do with the love that has nowhere to go? More like, "How do I live now?"Faith turned into both my query and my response. Not because I always felt spiritual, but rather because I was at a loss for what to do on those days, I went to prayer. The simplicity of sujood—placing my forehead on the floor and being motionless—was soothing to me. Just presence, no lofty prayers. I didn't always ask for anything. All I needed was a sense that Allah was aware. that He observed the shattered bits. that despite my inability to sense Him through the mist of grief, He was still there. The passage "In fact, we belong to Allah and to Him we shall return" came back to me. Even though I had said it a lot before, it had a new meaning now. It was more than a verse now. It was the truth. It was a painful but reassuring fact. It wasn't over yet. This was not the whole story of this existence. Our loved ones do not vanish into thin air. They go back to their Maker. And we'll go along with it. Death seemed so definitive until I realized that, when viewed through the prism of faith, it isn't. Grief may also open you up to empathy, introspection, and connection, in addition to sorrow, I've discovered. I became more conscious of other people's suffering. At the grocery store, I noticed a silent despair in someone's eyes. I observed how individuals speak about the ones they've lost and how, even after years, their voices still tremble a little. My grief softened me. I became friendlier as a result. It served as a reminder that everyone I encounter is carrying something, and that sometimes showing kindness is the best course of action. I eventually realized that grieving is not something that can be "moved on." It's something you have to live with, carry, and incorporate into your life. You move forward with it rather than moving on from it. It becomes a part of you, like a scar. It may wane, but it never goes away. And that's all right. Because grief is a kind of love, too. Because you loved truly, you grieve greatly. And that pain is, in a strange way, a continuance of that love. On certain days, I hated the suffering. I desired its removal. I desired to feel "normal" once again. However, I came to understand that mending is not synonymous with forgetting. You still miss them in spite of this. It teaches you to breathe, to live, to find beauty in non-particular moments, and to keep them with you in those moments. I started to see tiny indications of recovery in unexpected places, like the ability to discuss them without totally losing it, the first cup of coffee that tasted nice again, and laughing that came back effortlessly. Additionally, I discovered that my grief found a home in my creative endeavors. I found that writing, in particular, allowed me to let go of feelings that were too heavy to keep inside. Words became my therapy, my prayer, and my link between the past and the present. A few individuals painted. Others tended to their gardens. Some people created legacies for their loved ones by transforming their grief into volunteer work. I discovered that expression is a component of healing, regardless of the venue. Grief needs to shift. It can't remain motionless. It turns inward if it can't find a route out. "No weariness, disease, sorrow, sadness, hurt, or distress befalls a Muslim, even if it were the prick he receives from a thorn, but that Allah expiates some of his sins for it," reads a lovely hadith. This provided solace because it gave the pain meaning rather than by erasing it. It was not in vain that I suffered. It was observed. It was tallied. In the divine design, it had some significance. I realized that, despite its sorrow, mourning may serve as a teacher. It eliminated illusions. It made me rethink how I spend my time and who I devote my attention to, face my mortality, and consider what truly matters. It got me thinking, "What am I doing with my life if it's this fragile?" Even though it was awkward, that question gave me a stronger feeling of purpose. I began to put greater emphasis on connection, legacy, and intentional life. Grief made it clear that happiness can be found in simple, everyday moments that are full of presence rather than only in large festivities. People would occasionally use cliches to try to console me. "Everything occurs for a purpose." "They are now in a better location."Although I was aware of their good intentions, I didn't really require an explanation in those unfiltered moments. I needed room to grieve, to miss, to recall, to feel. I discovered that presence has greater impact than words. It's a blessing to sit quietly with someone while they're grieving. observing without attempting to correct. recognizing their suffering without attempting to take it away. My ability to forgive myself for the things I didn't say, the things I didn't know, and the things I wish I had done differently also improved with time. Guilt is often a part of grief. However, guilt simply makes the damage worse. I had to tell myself that I loved them as best I could at the time. And it must have been plenty. One of the most meaningful shifts in my journey came when I stopped asking, “Why did this happen to me?” and started asking, “What can I learn from this? Who can I become because of this?” That’s when grief began to transform. It didn’t leave — but it no longer controlled me. It became part of the story, not the whole story. It humbled me. It deepened my connection with God. It made me more aware of the sacredness of time, the impermanence of everything, and the importance of saying “I love you” often and without hesitation.
There’s an Arabic word, sabr, often translated as patience, but it’s more than waiting — it’s enduring with grace. It’s holding your pain without losing your faith. It’s trusting that even when you can’t see the wisdom, there is wisdom. That even when you feel alone, you are never truly alone. That the One who created your heart also holds it — and He understands every crack, every ache, every unspoken prayer.
Grief doesn’t vanish. But eventually, it becomes quieter. It takes a seat beside you instead of on top of you. It becomes a companion rather than an enemy. And in its presence, you learn to live with more depth, more empathy, more gratitude. You find meaning not despite the grief, but through it.
Life after loss is different. But different doesn’t mean worse. It means reshaped. It means deeper. It means wiser. You don’t return to who you were — you become someone new. Someone who knows the value of a moment, the strength of a heart that keeps beating, and the incredible courage it takes to love again, even knowing that loss is always a possibility. Grief, I’ve come to understand, is not a detour from life. It is part of life. And it is sacred. It breaks you open, but it also reveals what was always there: love, faith, resilience, and the quiet strength to carry on.