Best 3947 quotes in «grief quotes» category

You don't grieve love; you celebrate that you had it.

You’d think I’d be used to this agony by now , but it always catches me off guard. Anyone who says grief fades over time is a fucking liar. It never goes away. It just gets better at hiding. You never know when it’s going to spring out of the shadows and sucker punch you in the gut. Grief is a real asshole.

You find yourself in another world you weren’t looking for where what you see is that you have always been the wolves at the door. Left ajar, gaping, your own door.

You go to bed different... tossing and turning is the norm... you wake to a sunny day but clouds follow you wherever you go. You wonder if you are strong enough to climb out of the depression you are living in and your prayers to God seem empty because you are sooo very tired of telling him the same thing over and over again..... if we are really being real... there may even be moments after impact you forget how to pray... maybe you don't even want to.

You go on with your life, because life goes on,” says Isabel. “You see this in anyone who has survived a traumatic situation. My own daughter died, for example.” Her only daughter, Paula Frias, died of porphyria in 1992 at the age of twenty-seven. “At first you think you can’t live with this,” says the author, who just turned sixty-five. “It’s just too much. Then life begins to take over. One morning you wake up and you want to eat chocolate. Or walk in the woods. Or open a bottle of wine. You get back up on your feet.” “When you can, right?” “You have no choice!” Isabel insists. “You cannot let the bullies keep you on the floor! I have been on my knees a thousand times, and I always get up.

You have broken my heart. Just as well. Now I am learning to rise above all that, learning the thin life, waking up simply to praise everything in this world that is strong and beautiful always—the trees, the rocks, the fields, the news from heaven, the laughter that comes back all the same. Just as well. Time to read books, rake the lawn in peace, sweep the floor, scour the faces of the pans, anything. And I have been so diligent it is almost over, I am growing myself as strong as rock, as a tree which, if I put my arms around it, does not lean away.

You have changed but that is okay. Life is not static, why should you be?

You have no idea how well you are doing,” John complimented me just a few minutes after he mentioned the Christmas card. What did that mean: That I was doing well? That I’d come to a family gathering? That I’d remembered to bring food? That I was dressed, and my hair combed? That I was wearing shoes? I wasn’t sure, but maybe just making an appearance at a family event meant I was handling things well.

You haven't lost Iraki, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes. 'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinions, or your hair has turned like his. 'There are no more facts about him, that part is over. Now is the time for essential things. You'll see visions of him wherever you go. You'll see his eyes so moist, his intentions so blinding, you'll think he is more alive than you. You will look around and wonder if it was you who died. 'Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son. 'In the future, you'll live astride the line separating life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them. You'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgement falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being.'

You have no choice about how you feel about this. Your only choice is whether to feel it now or later." Although her comment helped a little at first, during the next twenty-five years I would keep discovering that how much I was able to feel, or not, and when, was not a matter of choice.

You have to do what feels right for you. Do not let anyone influence you otherwise. It is your mind, your heart, and your own internal wisdom that will lead you in the direction you need to go.

You hold an absence at your center, as if it were a life.

You know how cats are. They'll heal themselves if you keep them locked up. In a couple of months his bones mended. But the fear didn't; it stayed in that cat's bones. He wasn't cocky no more. Now he jumps when I go by him with the wheelbarrow. Fear like that stays inside you forever if you don't find a way to get rid of it.

You know, through pain, you learn a lot about yourself--things you thought you never knew you wanted to learn. And it's kind of like those animals that regrow a part of their body--like a starfish. You might not feel it. You might not even want to grow, but you will. You'll grow that part that broke off, and that growing, that blooming--cannot happen without the pain.

...you must never partly love or stop half way - because then, you become superficial and cannot be deeply hurt or loved...

You must remain. I must depart. Two autumns falling in the heart.

You need to calm down and remember that everyone grieves differently. Doesn't mean they don't care. You don't judge people in pain, and you damn sure don't lash out at them when they've lost what Syn has!

You need to keep hurting until you realise you never needed to hurt in the first place.

You never hear widows voice the sentiment, but I could stave off companionship indefinitely. Sex, not so much.

You okay, Mum?" said Rob. "I'm fine," said Rachel. She went to reach for her cup of coffee and found that she didn't have the energy to even lift her arm.

Your deepest scars tell the world of your greatest triumphs.

You're dead, and I'm the worst kind of alive.

Your dying was a difficult enterprise. First, petty things took up your energies, The small but clustering duties of the sick, Irritant as the cough’s dry rhetoric. Those hours of waiting for pills, shot, X-ray Or test (while you read novels two a day) Already with a kind of clumsy stealth Distanced you from the habits of your health.

You’re innocent until proven guilty,” Mandy exclaimed, unable to hide her gleeful smile. She missed the way people used to have normal conversations, used to be more caring for each other than themselves, back in the Seventies and Eighties. These days, she realized, neighbors kept to themselves, their kids kept to themselves, nobody talked to each other anymore. They went to work, went shopping and shut themselves up at home in front of glowing computer screens and cellphones… but maybe the nostalgic, better times in her life would stay buried, maybe the world would never be what it was. In the 21st century music was bad, movies were bad, society was failing and there were very few intelligent people left who missed the way things used to be… maybe though, Mandy could change things. Thinking back to the old home movies in her basement, she recalled what Alecto had told her. “We wanted more than anything else in the world to be normal, but we failed.” The 1960’s and 1970’s were very strange times, but Mandy missed it all, she missed the days when Super-8 was the popular film type, when music had lyrics that made you think, when movies had powerful meanings instead of bad comedy and when people would just walk to a friend’s house for the afternoon instead of texting in bed all day. She missed soda fountains and department stores and non-biodegradable plastic grocery bags, she wished cellphones, bad pop music and LED lights didn’t exist… she hated how everything had a diagnosis or pill now, how people who didn’t fit in with modern, lazy society were just prescribed medications without a second thought… she hated how old, reliable cars were replaced with cheap hybrid vehicles… she hated how everything could be done online, so that people could just ignore each other… the world was becoming much more convenient, but at the same time, less human, and her teenage life was considered nostalgic history now. Hanging her head low, avoiding the slightly confused stare of the cab driver through the rear view mirror, she started crying uncontrollably, her tears soaking the collar of her coat as the sun blared through the windows in a warm light.

You’re everything to me. But at best, I’m just a memory to you.

You're my phantom limb, Mouse. I keep looking for you. I forget. I feel stupid, Mouse. Haunt me, find me, come back from wherever you are. Be with me.

You're back where you swore yourself you wouldn't be The familiar shackles you can't tell from your own skin Your head's under water when you learned to swim On a road to hell, congratulations, you're free...

Your greatest highs come from overcoming your greatest lows.

Your memory feels like home to me. So whenever my mind wanders, it always finds it’s way back to you.

Your memories are embedded in the Seashells of Yesterdays...

Your pets will never judge you for helping them leave a body that has failed them. To them it is the ultimate gift of love.

Your presence in this house is almost as enormous and painful as your absence.

You start to understand that grief is chronic. That it's more about remission and relapse than it is about a cure. What that means to you is that you can't simply wait for it to be over. You have to move through it, like swimming in an undertow.

Your thoughts can torture you-but not the dead. They've moved on.

You said move on, where do I go?

You smell nice,’ she said. ‘Chanel,’ he said. ‘Wasted on you,’ she said and he reached into his bag and pulled out an almond tart. ‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said triumphantly as he lowered it under her nose. ‘Almonds,’ she said, ‘just like Paris.’ ‘For us to share,’ he said, ‘just like Paris.’ I never knew if she had any real appetite or not for she hadn’t eaten solids for days. But he broke a piece off and held it to her mouth and she ate hungrily for it was the memory she was tasting again and the memory tasted good. I moved a chair close to the bed for him and he sat down and held her hand. his own death he’d made peace with years ago but everyone else’s still frightened him and so he held her hand to not let her go. He held her hand because he wasn’t ready to let her go.

You think knowing things will solve your private little griefs?

You've got to figure out a way to live with your grief. Find times to put it on a shelf and times to take it off and when it sneaks up on you, as it's prone to do, recognize it, acknowledge it, even give it a little hug like an old friend, then take a big deep breath and keep walking. You can't avoid it.

You see yourself as a shipwreck, but we see your treasure glowing inside, beneath the oceans in your eyes.

You strive all through your life, to get somewhere, to be something, Some One, to matter, to have this, to have that, fill up your life with possessions, bonds, connections and in the end, the greed is still there, one does not want to let go, not unless the great gods come down and say enough is enough, no more......till then all you want is one more day." - Frank Adams

You told me the dead live on as long as people remember them, that love keeps the dead alive, but that's not true. Love plus death equals nothing at all. Death kills, you know, that's the truth that puts you out of a job. There's no virtual James in my head. What lives on is my memory, which is part of me and not him. My memory cannot surprise me, call me in the middle of the afternoon with an explicit request for the evening, smile when I wake him with croissants on Sunday mornings. He is ash and bone, James. Gone.

You thought it would break you in two, but it made you twice as strong.

You’ve been wondering lately when the moment is that somebody is truly lost to you.

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever. And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen.

You whom I could not save, Listen to me. Can we agree Kevlar backpacks shouldn’t be needed for children walking to school? Those same children also shouldn’t require a suit of armor when standing on their front lawns, or snipers to watch their backs as they eat at McDonalds. They shouldn’t have to stop to consider the speed of a bullet or how it might reshape their bodies. But one winter, back in Detroit, I had one student who opened a door and died. It was the front door to his house, but it could have been any door, and the bullet could have written any name. The shooter was thirteen years old and was aiming at someone else. But a bullet doesn’t care about “aim,” it doesn’t distinguish between the innocent and the innocent, and how was the bullet supposed to know this child would open the door at the exact wrong moment because his friend was outside and screaming for help. Did I say I had “one” student who opened a door and died? That’s wrong. There were many. The classroom of grief had far more seats than the classroom for math though every student in the classroom for math could count the names of the dead. A kid opens a door. The bullet couldn’t possibly know, nor could the gun, because “guns don’t kill people,” they don’t have minds to decide such things, they don’t choose or have a conscience, and when a man doesn’t have a conscience, we call him a psychopath. This is how we know what type of assault rifle a man can be, and how we discover the hell that thrums inside each of them. Today, there’s another shooting with dead kids everywhere. It was a school, a movie theater, a parking lot. The world is full of doors. And you, whom I cannot save, you may open a door and enter a meadow, or a eulogy. And if the latter, you will be mourned, then buried in rhetoric. There will be monuments of legislation, little flowers made from red tape. What should we do? we’ll ask again. The earth will close like a door above you. What should we do? And that click you hear? That’s just our voices, the deadbolt of discourse sliding into place.

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.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

3:12 pm Secretly, I admit, I find many of my classmates annoying. I've often thought to myself, 'Good grief, these people are five-year-olds. Why must I spend my days among them?' But have I ever said such things aloud? No. I have been nothing but generous to them, and kept these thoughts to myself. And how have they repaid me? Have they been grateful or kind? Ho NO!

A blight had fallen on the trees and shrubs; and the wind, at length beginning to break the unnatural stillness that had prevailed all day, sighed heavily from time to time, as though foretelling in grief the ravages of the coming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights through the heavy air, and the ground was alive with crawling things, whose instinct brought them forth to swell and fatten in the rain.

About twenty pages into Luke B. Goebel's Fourteen Stories, None of Them Are Yours, I realized I was reading with one hand holding my forehead and one balled at my waist, kind of clenched, and gazing down into the paper like a man soon to be converged upon. Goebel's testimony comes on like that: engrossing, fanatical, full of private grief, and yet, at the same time, charismatic, tender, and intrepid, aglow with more spirit than most Americans have the right to wield.