Walking Through Grief: A Counsellor’s Reflection on Loss and Healing

"People in their sorrow is knowing they are not alone—that someone will walk beside them, hold space for their pain, and wait with them until, one day, the light returns. "

Even though I have worked with many clients experiencing grief, it is still difficult for me to find an approach that feels “right” when writing about bereavement. What can I say that might bring some understanding to a topic so deep that it feels impossible to fully grasp or articulate?

Recently, one of my clients shared his experience of seeking mental health support after the death of his loved one. The supporter listed the phases of bereavement, explaining where he was and what might come next. But for him, the framework felt awkward and meaningless. The phases did not align with his experience, nor did they provide him with any comfort.

Many mental health professionals learn about the phases of grief—it is indeed a useful way to understand common responses to loss. However, I believe these phases serve more as a guide for supporters rather than something bereaved individuals need to follow or even be told about. Grief is not a structured process that unfolds in predictable steps. Those who are grieving do not need to be told what bereavement should feel like; they are already in it, experiencing it in ways beyond their control.

So, what should I say about grief? That question still lingers.

The other day, a colleague and I discussed the language people use when talking about death. My colleague pointed out that many people avoid saying “die” or “dead.” Instead, they say “pass away” or “lose their life.” The words “die” and “dead” feel absolute—an ending with no mercy, no turning back. Faced with such finality, people often fall silent, knowing that no words can make the loss better. Life is no longer the same after a death, and those left behind begin to grieve.

Joan Didion once wrote, “Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life” (Didion, 2005, p. 27).

No one can remove the pain caused by loss—not even a counsellor. How do those who are still alive continue when a loved one’s life has ended? How do they go on? Perhaps this is why people soften the language of death. Saying someone has “passed away” can feel as if they have simply moved on to another place, making the reality of their absence slightly more bearable. It shifts death from an unescapable ending to something that allows for the possibility of continuation.

But the ability to continue must come from the bereaved themselves. No one can rush them. No imposed framework or belief can make them feel hopeful about the future. Those who grieve must find their own way to make sense of death and learn how to live with it. This journey is often filled with pain, confusion, guilt, anger, and countless emotions that cannot be neatly categorised. What others can do is walk alongside them—acknowledging the powerlessness of loss, accepting their emotions without judgment, patiently waiting as they navigate their grief, and letting them know they are not alone. The sorrow of losing a loved one never fully disappears, but with time, we learn how to carry it and continue living.

Recently, a famous actress from Taiwan suddenly died, leaving her two young children behind. It makes me, as a mother of an only child, worry about how my child would cope if I were to die. Will he have someone to share his experience with? Will he have someone he feels safe enough with to show his tears? I hope there will be someone who will walk through the darkness with him, waiting for the day when the sun can shine again in his world.

Grief is a deeply personal journey, and no one can dictate how or when a person will find their way forward. But what sustains people in their sorrow is knowing they are not alone—that someone will walk beside them, hold space for their pain, and wait with them until, one day, the light returns. And that is what I hope for my child, for my clients, and for anyone navigating loss.

References:

Didion, Joan (2006) The Year of Magical Thinking. Harper Perennial.