Chew On It – Making Peace with Grief
Lately, a few friends of mine have been struggling with grief. Sadly, I know grief all too well. It has been my unwanted constant companion for many years.
Most people do not understand grief deeply, simply because they have not yet had to. They are the fortunate ones. But in time, grief comes to all of us. It is part of life, and part of love.
What makes it especially hard is sudden loss. When someone is taken from you without warning, there is no preparation, no chance to make peace, and no chance to say what you wish you had said.
A friend of mine, Molly, is caring for a loved one who has chosen euthanasia. She is having a very difficult time, knowing that goodbye is coming soon. I said to her that, painful as it is, there is still something precious in having the chance to say goodbye. Her friend had said the same thing.
I was given that chance with my brother Tony in 2019 after he suffered a massive stroke. I was able to tell him how much I loved him and thank him for being such a supportive and loving brother. I will always be grateful for that. But the price he paid to remain long enough for those final words was a very heavy one. He had a brilliant mind, was a superb athlete, and to see him left paralysed and only briefly lucid was heartbreaking.
Before his stroke, many of our family had gathered in Penang to celebrate his 70th birthday. I have long believed we should say what matters while our loved ones are still here to hear it. Too often, we wait until the funeral to say what should have been said when they could still hear it. So I am grateful that I had already expressed my love, appreciation, and thanks to my brother while he was still with us.
One of the things grief has taught me is that most people do not know what to say to someone who is grieving. Often, with the best intentions, they say the wrong thing. Sometimes they compare it to losing a pet. Sometimes they offer beliefs that may comfort them, but not the person in pain.
One comment that has always deeply annoyed me is when people say, “Your daughter is looking down on you.” To me, that is not comforting. My simple reality is that she is no longer here with me.
When someone is grieving, it is best to say little. Just be there. A hug, a hand on the shoulder, quiet presence — these mean far more than words. One visit is kind. More than one visit is compassion and an expression of love.
And for those who are grieving, do not be afraid to reach out. Do not think you are a burden. The truth is, you would be there for the people you love if they were suffering. Allow them the privilege of being there for you.
Professional help can also be valuable, though in my experience not all therapists are equal. The right person matters, and so does the timing. Help is only helpful when you are ready to receive it.
Over time, I have come to see that grief never really leaves. There is no “getting over it.” There is only learning to live with it. The pain may soften, but the scar remains. And perhaps that scar is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of love.
The following is a piece I wrote to myself last year about my grief that you may find helpful:
Grief is like open-heart surgery.
The wound can heal, but the scar will always remain.
I have come to realise that I do not need to keep carrying the pain to keep feeling the love for my daughter.
Letting go of some of the pain does not mean I miss her any less, nor does it mean I love her any less.
For a long time, I believed that holding onto the pain was a measure of my love and of how deeply I missed her.
With time, I have come to see it differently.
The scar will always remind me of what I have lost, but I do not need to keep reliving the pain itself.
Healing does not diminish love. It honours it.
My heart was shattered, left open and vulnerable.
Like any deep wound, it needs care, patience, and gentleness to heal.
My heart will never be the same, but it can still beat with love.
