#dealingwithgrief

A poignant poetry collection, When The Rose Fades, addresses bereavement following a loved one's death. Experience the inspiration and solace that come from Mr. Brion K. Hanks' poems.

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/the-truth-about-lying#/

i adore this movie. i do. i wanted to watch it so bad and i felt terrible turning it off. 

but the part where ian is getting breakfast, and the guy in the restaurant recognizes his college hoodie? the one that was his dad’s? 

that part hurt. 

my dad was the same way. he was big, and bold, and didn’t care what anyone thought of him. he was confident and strong and well known. and people remember him for that. 

he also knew everyone, and i do mean everyone, in the area where i grew up. he moved here for college and stayed here until he passed away almost two months ago. 

i have one of his hoodies, his college one that’s 20+ years old and isn’t soft anymore because of how much it’s been worn. it’s my favorite hoodie. he gave it to me forever ago when i decided i want to go to the same college he did, where he and my mom met. 

people around town recognize me as his kid, and they ask me a lot about my school. and i tell them that even though i haven’t started there yet, my parents went there. my dad went there. 

i, unlike ian, got to know my dad for 18 years of my life. i knew what he was like. but i still get excited when someone wants to tell me about him, especially someone who knew him back before i can remember him. people i don’t even know will come up to me because they knew my dad and they see him in me. especially when i wear his old hoodie. 

so that’s why i had to turn it off. i couldn’t handle it, seeing ian in the same position i’ve been in. hearing the man talk about Wilden and only being able to see my own dad in his words. it hurt too much. 

i love this movie because it accurately portrays what it’s like to lose a parent. it shows ian’s excitement in hearing about his dad even as he’s saddened by the thought of what he never got to experience. 

Lisa M. Fagan

Grief has changed me. Who I am now feels light-years from the woman I was on May 14th, the day before my husband left this world. Loving Eddie, and being loved by him, was one of the greatest gifts of my life. His love wasn’t loud or demanding. It was steady, kind, and wide enough for all the parts of me I wasn’t sure deserved it.

I’ve learned so much from him. Not just while he was here, holding my hand through ordinary days, but in the quiet after. In the stillness of missing him.

Here are five things that have slowly taken shape for me. If you're moving through grief, some of them might feel familiar.

1. Grief is everywhere

Grief rewires you. Not just in how you hold your own grief, but how you pick up on it in other people. Especially the kind that doesn’t come with funerals or casseroles. You see it in the shift behind someone’s smile when they talk about a job they lost. A friendship that quietly faded. It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere. It's in that tiny pause before someone says “I’m good,” like they’re checking if they actually are.

Grief doesn’t just show up when someone dies. It lives in layoffs and hard decisions and the dreams that drift out of reach. In the stuff packed away that doesn’t fit your life anymore—but still somehow matters.

You don’t go around naming it for people. But you feel it. And you honor it. Because grief doesn’t always look like grief. And it deserves to be seen anyway.

2. Most things don't hit that hard anymore

After you lose someone you love, something shifts permanently. Your life rearranges, and suddenly the everyday triggers don’t register the same way. The Wi-Fi’s down? Okay. The coffee’s cold? Mild tragedy. Someone cuts you off in traffic? A dramatic gasp, and then you move on.

After grief walks through your door and makes itself at home, most things lose their ability to shake you. You’ve already felt the earth crack open beneath your feet. You’ve already lived through what felt unlivable. So when life throws its usual nonsense your way, you just nod, adjust, and carry on. It’s not that nothing matters—it’s that the volume’s been recalibrated. And the things that used to feel earthshattering? They’re just mildly inconvenient now. Annoying, but they don’t get center stage anymore. That role’s already been filled, and grief is not sharing the spotlight.

3. It's okay to be happy

Grief doesn’t mean you stop having good days. It doesn’t mean you’re curled up in a corner forever. Sometimes you laugh so hard you forget, for a split second, that your loved one is not here. You catch yourself in a moment that feels light, even ordinary, and it stuns you—not out of guilt, but out of awe. Because joy still lives here too.

Some days, things feel lighter. You'll get lost in a story, or a joke hits just right, or someone says something ridiculous and you snort-laugh before you remember what you're carrying. And that’s okay. That’s human.

Grief doesn’t wipe out everything else. Sometimes it takes a back seat while life reminds you it still knows how to shine. Even with the ache.

4. There's a desire to live better

Losing someone you love cracks you wide open. It strips away all the pretending and all the someday-ing. You start seeing life differently—not just as something to endure or manage, but something sacred and brief. Nothing lasts forever. And when you’ve felt that truth in your bones, you can’t help but want to do better. To live better.

Grief teaches you that waiting is a luxury. That loving fiercely and showing up fully isn't just beautiful—it’s necessary. You don’t want to sleepwalk through a life that could be gone in a blink. You want to be awake for it. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

You don't live your best life because everything’s perfect. You do it because you finally get how fragile all of this is. And you want to honor what you've lost by not wasting what you still have.

5. Support comes when you least expect it

It’s hard to tell people your loved one died. You don’t want to drop sadness into someone’s sunny afternoon or turn a casual catch-up into a grief spiral. You catch yourself changing the subject, deflecting, smiling through it. It’s easier to pretend for a minute.

But the truth waits in your throat. And when you finally say it—when you let the words fall—there’s relief. Like you've been holding a heavy secret and finally set it down. People don’t look away. They lean in. They offer, a drink, a dinner. Or say, “Call me.”

They want to show up, even if it’s messy. And you start to let them. There’s something deeply human about it—this willingness to witness each other’s heartbreak. To say, “I see you. I’ll sit with you.”

So here I am. Still figuring it out. Still learning how to carry the love, the loss, and the everyday mess of life without dropping the laughter along the way.

Grief sucks! And navigating the heaviness of it can sometimes distract you from the things you still need to make you feel normal.

So if someone offers a drink, or offers to sit with you, say yes. Even if it feels easier to wave them off. Even if your first instinct is to protect them from your sadness, or protect yourself from feeling too much.

Say yes, because these moments matter. Not for fixing anything, but for reminding you that you’re not alone. Letting them in doesn’t mean you’re falling apart. It just means you’re letting grief be witnessed. And that’s a quiet kind of healing too.

I know I don't have all of the answers. These are the five things I've learned. I’d love to hear your opinions on this in the comments. Or if you can relate, drop a "like".