Sitting with Grief

There is a certain stillness that grief brings. It is not merely an empty space, but a slowing of the world around us, a quieting of urgency, a halt to the impulse to fix, solve, or explain. In grief, life no longer flows in straight lines. Instead, it folds back on itself, weighed down with memory and absence. We are faced with a truth that cannot be altered: something has ended, or someone we love is no longer with us.

To sit with grief, whether our own or another’s, is to resist the urge to rush. It is to let go of the idea that healing must follow a smooth curve or a predictable timetable. Some losses are not meant to be resolved; they are intended to be borne, slowly, awkwardly, and gently.

Often, what is needed is not forced positivity or advice, but presence. The kind of companionship that does not aim to lift the burden but instead chooses to stay close, to witness, to be. It is a straightforward yet courageous and deeply human act of saying: I will sit with you here. I will not turn away.

There is a teaching in the Buddhist tradition that states: “All that is mine, beloved and pleasing, will become otherwise and become separated from me. This is to be reflected on again and again.” This is not a morbid truth, but a compassionate one; an invitation to realise that impermanence is woven into the very fabric of life and love. To love is to live with the risk of loss, and yet we love anyway - tenderly, imperfectly, and with a willingness to begin again.

Grief does not ask us to forget or to “move on.” It asks us to learn how to live in a new landscape, shaped by absence, devotion and remembrance. In this new terrain, even the most ordinary days can feel steeped in significance: a familiar scent, a turn in the well-worn path once walked by two, now only by one. The grief we hold is not separate from love. It is, in many ways, its continuation.

There is a Japanese phrase, ‘mono no aware’, that expresses this gentle awareness of impermanence. It captures the sensation evoked by falling cherry blossoms: a tender ache, a realisation that beauty is fleeting. Instead of resisting this truth, mono no aware encourages us to soften into it, to feel the pang of longing that arises from transience, and to perceive it not as a mistake, but as part of what gives life its poignancy and depth.

Grief, then, is not an interruption to life, but one of its most sincere experiences. To grieve is to have known meaning and love. To support someone in their grief is to walk alongside them with humility and patience, without needing to find resolution; simply being present again and again.

There is no cleverness here. No perfect response. Only presence. Only the willingness to remain near, to listen, and to honour the sacred work of loss and love. Ultimately, what most of us seek in grief is not explanation, distraction or false cheer, but simply the reassurance that we are not alone.

You can also read this post on our Substack journal, Unfolding.