Best 423 of Grief and loss quotes - MyQuotes
Hitting bottom is an inside job — it's something that happens within our consciousness.
Grief does not seem to me to be a choice. Whether or not you think grief has value, you will lose what matters to you. The world will break your heart. So I think we’d better look at what grief might offer us. It’s like what Rilke says about self-doubt: it is not going to go away, and therefore you need to think about how it might become your ally. Grief might be, in some ways, the long aftermath of love, the internal work of knowing, holding, more fully valuing what we have lost…
The spiritual messages for mum kept coming to me in meditation. I never questioned them, I just passed them on.
He went through the old motions of his life, taking care of what needed caring for, keeping mostly quiet about what was on his mind. But his hard waiting changed him; you could see it in his face.
It was then that I had a choice. I could cry and lay down and die, or I could use what I had learned from him to keep going and fully live.
I don’t think you ever really understood…. …. All the love I had in the world went to you.
In March of 1915, all three of Lord and Lady Chetwynd-Pitt's sons'd been gassed, blown up or machine-gunned in the very same week at the battle of Neuve-Chapelle. All three. Imagine that: On Monday, you've got three sons, by Friday you've got none. Lady Albertina had just, y'know, caved in. Physically, mentally, spiritually, brutally.
You will live in me always. Your words, your heart, your soul are all part of me. My heart is full of your memories. Thank you for the gift of your life. I will never forget you.
WHE YOU FOCUS ON HEALING AND OVERCOME A TRAGEDY OR CHANGE IN YOUR LIFE, YOU BECOME A SURVIVOR, NOT A VICTIM ANYMORE.
We continued talking as my purchases were rung up—about the first Christmas, the sadness of ending up in a cemetery on a holiday, and the pain of getting through that first year. “They tell me it gets better,” she said with a sigh. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked shyly before I turned to go. She nodded eagerly, and one small sob escaped her as I squeezed her shoulders tightly. I might look back on that first Christmas and remember it as the year I did so many things so badly, the year I forgot to feed my family. Or I might just remember it as the Christmas I learned what it meant to reach out to a hurting stranger.
And he had begun to feel then what he was feeling now: the complex and awful mental and physical interaction that is the beginning of acceptance, and the only counterpart to that feeling is rape.
Viet Thanh Nguyen
But what does one say to a ghost, except to ask why he was here? I was afraid of the answer, so instead I said, 'What took you so long?
I had someone once who made every day mean something. And now…. I am lost…. And nothing means anything anymore.
No one knew she cried in the night for Lyle and her lost happiness, that under that biscuit crust exterior she was all butter grief and hunger.
Wracking sobs rip from the innermost chamber of my heart, and I give into them, allowing them to fully take over. Pain lances me on all sides, and I bury my head in my knees, giving in to the heartache.
The truth of it was he didn't want her. He wanted Mary Kate with every cell of his body. He missed everything about her. The feel of her sleeping at his side. Her gentle snores. Her soft brown curls tickling his nose enough to wake him from a sound sleep even on nights when he needed it most. Her smile. The smell of her. At odd moments he thought he had heard her laughter, or he'd catch a glimpse of her in the corner of an eye, but all of it was a lie, and every time it happened it was as if someone had ripped a deep wound in his chest. The pain was raw enough to make him want to take a razor to his wrist, but each time he considered acting upon the idea something stopped him, and so, he stumbled on barely alive and wishing for an end. At times he couldn't breathe, couldn't move without wanting to scream.
It made him sad, realising that their smell was going to be gone for good one day. Even if they kept all their clothes, the scent would vanish eventually and become only a memory, just like everything else about them. Sometimes he thought he couldn’t even remember their voices anymore. There were photos of course, but it wasn’t the same. Although he had not hugged either of his parents in years, the thought of not being able to do so was too painful to bear, especially when he felt like he needed it. Eventually he would forget what it had felt like to be near his mum or what kind of a presence his father had. They were just going to be names, mere mentions in conversation that were glazed over and didn’t mean much to anybody.
Reverend was right about one thing: people always want a reason for the bad things in life. Sometimes there ain't one.
Isn't she doing this too? Connecting and disconnecting. Facing grief then turning from it. One minute she is caught up in minutiae. Will her feet get sore standing in heels at the church? Have they made enough food? Will the kitten get scared by dozens of strangers in the house? Should she shut him in a room upstairs? The next moment she is weeping uncontrollably, taken over by pain so profound she can barely move. Then there was the salad bowl incident; her own fury scared her. But maybe these are different ways of dealing with events for all of them. Molly and Luke are infantile echos of her, their emotions paired down, their reactions simpler but similar. For if they have difficulty taking in what has happened, then so too does she. Why is she dressing up, for instance? Why can't she wear clothes to reflect the fact that she is at her lowest end? A tracksuit, a jumper full of holes, dirty jeans? Why can't she leave her hair a mess, her face unmade up? The crazed and grieving Karen doesn't care about her appearance. Yet she must go through with this charade, polish herself and her children to perfection. She, in particular, must hold it together. Oh, she can cry, yes, that's allowed. People expect that. They will sympathize. But what about screaming, howling, and hurling plates like she did yesterday? She imagines the shocked faces as she shouts and swears and smashes everything. But she is so angry, surely others must feel the same. Maybe a plate throwing ceremony would be a more fitting ritual than church, then everyone could have a go...smashing crockery up against the back garden wall.
Lynda Cheldelin Fell
Grief resets the clock of life to before & after.
Harsh, bitter laughs exploded from her like shrapnel, and she didn’t care who was cut in the process.
Do what you love and own who you are. Time is precious and death is real. So is Art: It defies them both
Don't be afraid of the space between what has been and can be. Simply spend a quiet moment to wrap and warm yourself within your own arms . . . then step forward. There is a door just ahead, opening into the light of a new time." - From Letters for Grace
Neena H. Brar
Time heals everything, that’s what everyone says. Wounds heal and leave only scars behind. But some wounds run too deep to heal, and pierce the deepest layers of one’s soul. They stay there unhealed and ready to ooze blood at the first sign of grief.
Grief's only ever as deep as the love it's replaced.
I lay down on the ground and stared at the taunting white clouds that seemed to be laughing at me. Mocking my existence. Letting me know that even hell could be beautiful; it just wouldn’t ever be satisfying.
They say “Follow your heart”…. …. But I can’t follow you where you’re going…
I was walking along one day and smacked into this wall called hope deferred and depression and...grief. And it wouldn't budge. After some time, I realized this darkness I'd found myself in was called grief. I'd been through so much trauma, everything about me- including my body, emotions and soul, was shutting down and going into preservation mode. I entered a season where the battle caught up with me and I realized just how badly I'd been beaten and torn up, inside and out.
And there I lie in these damned bandages for a week. And there he lies, swathed up too, like a little mummy. And never crying. But now I like raking him in my arms and looking at him. A lovely forehead, incredibly white, the eyebrows drawn very faintly in gold dust... Well, this was a funny time. (The big bowl of coffee in the morning with a pattern of red and blue flowers. I was always so thirsty.) But uneasy, uneasy... Ought a baby to be as pretty as this, as pale as this, as silent as this? The other babies yell from morning to night. Uneasy... When I complain about the bandages she says: 'I promise you that when you take them off you'll be just as you were before.' And it is true. When she takes them off there is not one line, not one wrinkle, not one crease. And five weeks afterwards there I am, with not one line, not one wrinkle, not one crease. And there he is, lying with a ticket tied around his wrist because he died in a hospital. And there I am looking down at him, without one line, without one wrinkle, without one crease...
You know how the sea grinds down stones into sand, over years and years and years? Nobody ever sees it, it happens so slowly. And then at last the sand is so fine you can sift it in your fingers. Losing Dad is like being worn away by a force that's so powerful nothing could resist it. We are like stones, being changed into something completely different. If you looked casually at me and Mum and Conor now, you might think we were the same people as we were a year ago, except that we're a year older. But we are not the same people. We've changed where no one can see it, inside our minds and our feelings. I didn't want us to change, but I can't stop it.
It is not as if an 'I' exists independently over here and then simply loses a 'you' over there, especially if the attachment to 'you' is part of what composes who 'I' am. If I lose you, under these conditions, then I not only mourn the loss, but I become inscrutable to myself. Who 'am' I, without you? When we lose some of these ties by which we are constituted, we do not know who we are or what to do. On one level, I think I have lost 'you' only to discover that 'I' have gone missing as well. At another level, perhaps what I have lost 'in' you, that for which I have no vocabulary, is a relationality that is composed neither exclusively of myself nor you, but is to be conceived as *the tie* by which those terms are differentiated and related.
Heart Rings What stories would our bones tell if they had rings like trees? circles marking the times when you felt loved when you were in love when you grieved when you did something that required every last ounce of your courage when you were full of faith — That is how our hearts work a lone, rhythmic documentarian chronicling your life in the shadow of your flesh mysterious even to its owner And someday we might learn that it was drawing a map for the soul to navigate the real final frontier
Grief is a strange journey. Each time we embark upon it, it is as though we have never taken its roads before. No, I have that wrong: each grief brings us through a familiar landscape carved into unrecognizable contours. For we do not only lose another person; we lose the person we were with the one we lost.
We imagined we knew everything the other thought, even when we did not necessarily want to know it, but in fact, I have come to see,we knew not the smallest fraction of what there was to know.
I realized at that moment that depression and I will always be linked, tugging back and forth, like the drunken uncle who still gets invited to the family reunion even though everyone knows he’s going to make a messy scene.
Grievers I've come across function within society, and most days it appears pretty seamless. We volunteer at church. We go to school plays. We shop. We cheer from the sidelines. We try to blend in. We smile. We look normal. We need people to feel okay being open and natural around us, so as not to drive us even further apart from the world. We are not from another planet, but it feels that way, so far removed is our experience from those around us. There is a constant undercurrent of loss, a schism in our brains, which we gradually learn to adapt to, but is ever present. It's as if our brains are operating on two separate tracks. One is the here and now. The second is the parallel track of what could or should have been yet will not be. Most days I can keep the second track hidden. Other times, I haven't got a prayer.
I have become conscious of my own “cry face.” My face puckers like the business end of a hot dog except for my mouth, which stretches in a grimace so wide as to accommodate said hotdog horizontally within it. It’s not pretty.
I was held for a few moments in the coherence and safety of the life we had, when so much seemed predictable.
So you see, the grief doesn't get smaller - life just gets bigger
He laughs and hugs me and says that I shouldn't believe anyone who tells me it's gonna get better. "Ride the wave," he says. "Don't wait for it. Don't fear it. Just ride it.
Grief at its peak has a terrible beauty to it, a blinding fission of every emotion. The world is charged with significance, with meaning, and the world around you, normally so solid and implacable, suddenly looks thin, translucent.
For no soul can ever be replaced, and death claims a beauty and a magnificence that will always be missed.
Those who have slept with sorrow in their hearts Know all too well how short but sweet The instant of their coming-to can be: The heart is strong, as if it never sorrowed; The mind's dear clarity intact; and then, The vast, unhappy stone from yesterday Rolls down these vital units to the bottom of oneself.
Simon Van Booy
Your grief is something to be admired – the pain of severance. A scar where something used to be.
For many people, the love or the loss of an animal often becomes a gateway into a deeper spiritual journey. The most pragmatic of men will begin to question the fundamental nature of being when he is visited by an apparition of his deceased cat or dog companion.
After I left New York, I found the adage about time healing all wounds to be false: grief doesn't fade. Grief scabs over like scars and pulls into new, painful configurations as it knits. It hurts in new ways. We are never free from grief. We are never free from the feeling that we have failed. We are never free from self-loathing. We are never free from the feeling that something is wrong with us, not with the world that made this mess.
For those struggling with grief, there’s no timetable. It can last months, years, or longer. There is no rush. Give yourself permission to take however long it may be to fully heal from your loss.
I guess it takes one to know one, and two can play that game.
I realised I had a stream of thoughts about him which ran for the most part below conscious level. I noticed jets spurting up from this stream: comparisons with other relationships I knew of which had weathered massive changes and shifts of balance; small crumbs of hope he would find he missed the familiarity of my company, or that his gestures of comfort meant more than a gentle goodbye. I grieved for these hopes, and their hopelessness.
Sue Monk Kidd
Aunt-Sister would’ve said, ‘Let her go, it’s past the time,’ but I wanted the pain of mauma’s face and hands more than the peace of being without them.