The Shape of Grief

I wrote these words a few years ago after losing myself in my brain injury, not knowing they would find their way back to me as a teacher. Grief, uncertainty, and the search for meaning are not linear experiences; they revisit us, sometimes in the quiet moments, sometimes with a force that demands attention.

I am unsure. Some days, all I can feel are the unanswered questions in my soul growing like long shadows stretching out as the sun fades into the skyline. The roots of these shadows are mired in uncertainty—notwithstanding logic, they don't stem from matter but are composed of transcending forms that evade waking consciousness. They evoke a feeling that can only be grief, the drop-to-your-knees, face-in-your-palms kind of pain I wish you couldn’t relate to.

Embracing fear as my curriculum and pain as my teacher, the only path from here is to adapt to the constantly shifting ground beneath my feet, choosing to savor the richness of life through welcoming greater challenges. Fear is the deepest initiation into freedom, while pain demands awareness by stripping you awake. Accepting each with an abundance of childlike curiosity while enveloped in a gooey yet transcendent shadow requires the kind of pure presence that is ultimately the access point to infinity. This is going to take a minute.

But by removing ambiguity from desire, I free myself of the heaviness which annihilates the space in me, the innocence in me, and the light between us.

The Narrative of Grief

Grief isn’t just about loss; it’s about identity. The person I was when I wrote this was searching for meaning within the pain, and now, I find myself revisiting these words, this pain, with a deeper sense of self-compassion. The unanswered questions appear to remain, but perhaps I’m learning to sit with them differently—to hold them without needing resolution.

Grief is more than an emotional response; it is a story we live in, shape, and reshape over time. The way we tell our story shapes how we experience and integrate our experience. Grief is not just about what is lost but about what it means to us, how it fractures our sense of self, and how we begin to reassemble a new identity in the face of it. Our relationship with grief evolves as we do, shaped by our environment, our connections, and the quiet moments we allow ourselves to truly feel.

The questions we ask ourselves—Who am I now? Where do I go from here?—are not just rhetorical. They form the foundation of a new narrative, even if the answers remain elusive for some time. And in that space of unknowing, self-compassion becomes a steadying force, reminding us that healing is not about arriving at certainty but about allowing ourselves to soften into the unknown.

Holding the Paradox

What I take from reading this today is the reminder that fear and pain are not obstacles to overcome but invitations to engage more fully with life. And just as I wrote back then, the process is ongoing. It will take a minute.

Grief demands that we hold paradoxes: the love that remains in emptiness, the hope that coexists with despair, the gratitude that grows in the cracks of absence. Writing becomes a bridge between these contradictions, allowing us to explore the tension without needing to resolve it.

Our stories, when shared, become containers for connection—proof that we are not alone in our experience. Whether written, spoken, or silently reflected upon, the act of witnessing our own grief in a compassionate light allows new growth to take root.

For anyone navigating their own shadows, I invite you to explore the stories you tell about your grief. Write them down, speak them out loud, or share them with someone who can bear witness. In doing so, you may find not answers, but a sense of connection to the process—a reminder that the shifting ground beneath your feet is also where the story continues.