Grief Is Not All Or Nothing

Have you ever felt a wave of frustration when someone has hurt or offended you? In those moments, even when laughter unexpectedly breaks through your sorrow, it can be hard to fully embrace joy. It’s natural to want to stay in that space of feeling wronged or upset.

Grief can mirror this complex emotional landscape.

We often think grief means being consumed by sadness every moment of every day. If we truly loved deeply, then sorrow should permanently overshadow joy. But grief is not all or nothing. You can be in the pits of despair one day and, the next, be embracing life and feeling joy. It is all a part of the grief process.

Recently, I experienced this deeply while spending time in the mountains with my granddaughters. The getaway prompted me to reflect deeply on the complexities of grief, as it stirred memories that seemed to live quietly in every familiar place we visited. As I walked the familiar paths toward the pool and condo, I was reminded of earlier years when Kevin, his sister, and her husband filled those same spaces with laughter, conversation, and life. The mountains echoed our past.

Every familiar turn carried both warmth and heartache.

At the end of each day, after enjoying activities like hiking and pickleball, we gathered to play board games and indulge in ice cream under the starry sky. In those moments, surrounded by my granddaughters’ laughter, I was gently reminded of the shared joy with Kevin in similar situations. The laughter around the table mingled with the stillness of the night sky, creating a sacred atmosphere. It's fascinating how one can be fully present in the moment while also reflecting on treasured memories from the past.

Hiking with our granddaughters

And that is what grief has become for me now.

Not constant despair.

Not complete healing.

But living in the tension of both.

People often assume grief is most intense at the moment of loss or during the immediate aftermath, when the world briefly pauses to acknowledge your pain. But the deepest weight of grief often comes later, when the world resumes its normal rhythm and quietly expects you to do the same. This in-between stage of grief can feel incredibly disorienting. Life appears normal on the outside, yet internally everything feels altered, muted, and unsteady. You continue to show up in life, but part of you feels suspended somewhere between the past and the present. 

I know that space intimately now.

There are days when I genuinely smile, laugh with others, and fully engage in the beauty unfolding around me while simultaneously carrying an ache so deep it never completely leaves my body. Just yesterday, tears flowed from my eyes as I drove, expressing an unspoken ache for Kevin. Grief often arrives quietly like that, not always as dramatic sorrow, but as a heaviness that settles unexpectedly into ordinary moments. 

This is why I emphasize that grief is not all-or-nothing.

It is entirely possible to genuinely laugh while still feeling profound sadness, to experience gratitude even while grappling with devastation, and to find joy amid mourning. Sitting under the stars with my granddaughters, enjoying ice cream, I can simultaneously grieve for the son who should be there with us, creating these memories together.

Research in the field of grief has revealed that we do not move in a straight line from grief to healing. Instead, we navigate a paradox in which gratitude, love, longing, joy, and sorrow coexist. It is often within this in-between space that most grieving individuals find themselves.

Not dead.

Not fully alive.

Not healed.

Not destroyed.

Just carrying both. 

I felt that tension deeply during this trip. One part of me was fully present, cherishing every moment with my granddaughters and feeling grateful for the life still unfolding before me. Another part quietly mourned the son who should still be here creating these memories alongside us. Grief means understanding that joy does not erase sorrow; it sits beside it. It is laughing during a board game, then suddenly feeling tears rise because the person you love is no longer there to laugh with you. It is smiling honestly, not pretending, while still carrying a permanent ache beneath the surface. 

Years ago, I believed healing meant eventually reaching a place where the pain disappeared. But grief has reshaped my understanding of healing entirely. Healing is not the absence of sorrow. It is learning how to live alongside it. 

I found myself remembering the girls when they were younger and the joy Kevin brought into ordinary moments. I could almost hear the splashing and laughter from bubble baths after long days at the pool. Kevin had such a gentle, playful spirit with his nieces. He made ordinary moments feel extraordinary. Standing there again, I realized grief is not about letting go. It is learning how to continue living while carrying an absence.

Kevin with his nieces

At the water park, I watched my granddaughters play, and I found that tears quietly filled my eyes. Not because grief ruined the day, but the love and joy that remain intertwined with grief.

Perhaps grief is becoming fluent in contradiction.

It is carrying gratitude and devastation. Faith and doubt. Love and anger. Presence and absence. Memory and reality. It is being grateful for what remains while mourning what never will again. It is realizing the world continued moving after yours was shattered. 

And perhaps the deepest in-between of all is this: you do not completely lose them, but you do not fully get to keep them either. That is the ache grieving people learn to live "inside". 

Loss has changed the way I experience life. I linger longer now. I pay attention to the ordinary moments I once rushed past because I understand they are not ordinary at all. The sound of laughter around a board game. Wet footprints near the pool. Ice cream is melting too quickly on warm summer nights. Tiny hands reaching for mine. These moments matter because one day they, too, will become memories. 

I am learning that I do not have to choose between honoring Kevin and embracing life. I can do both. I can cry and still laugh. I can miss him terribly and still feel grateful for the beauty surrounding me. I can hold grief in one hand and gratitude in the other. 

Grief is waking up functional while still feeling emotionally shattered underneath. Grief is smiling in photographs while your soul still feels bruised. Grief is feeling guilty for laughing, then realizing laughter is part of healing.

Grief is not all or nothing. It is not about moving on, nor is it about staying stuck in the pain. It is learning, slowly and imperfectly, how to keep loving, remembering, grieving, and still living all at once.