Learning to grieve when I never really let myself
In my last post, I shared a different kind of New Year’s resolution.
Instead of promising to hit the gym or reinvent my life, I said this:
This year, I want to learn how to grieve—
and finally give myself room to feel the things I’ve never really let myself grieve before.
That first post was about why grief matters and how I’ve spent most of my life pushing it away.
This one is about something a little scarier:
What it actually looks like to start grieving
when you honestly don’t know how.
This is going to be a vulnerable one (and probably the first of a few).
It’s not a “aww, poor me” project. It’s me being open and transparent about a part of healing that I’ve avoided for a long time—hoping that if you see yourself in any of this, you’ll feel a little less alone and a little less “broken.”
I am just now, as an adult, realizing:
I don’t really know how to grieve.
Not fully. Not honestly. Not beyond pets and clean, simple losses.
And there’s another layer I’m trying to reconcile:
I was raised and trained to never be a victim. Keep going. Be strong. Don’t dwell. Other people have it worse. Don’t make a big deal out of things.
So actually letting myself grieve can feel like breaking that rule.
It can feel like I’m slipping into “victim mode,” even when what I’m really doing is telling the truth about what hurt and how it shaped me. My head knows there’s a difference. My body still isn’t so sure.
Somehow, I’m supposed to start doing something I don’t know how to do, that also feels like the exact thing I was always told not to be. And half the time, it feels like I already missed my chance because I pushed it down so fast when it first happened.
That’s what this is:
me starting what I don’t know how to do, and figuring it out as I go.
“I Think I Missed My Chance”
One of the hardest parts about grief for me is this feeling:
Once I’ve shoved something down, it feels like it’s gone.
Like I missed my window.
If I get hurt or blindsided, I might feel that sting for a second—but if I don’t cry right then, it’s like my brain slams the door and says:
- “You’re not crying anymore, so I guess it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
- “You’ve moved on. Don’t go back now.”
By the time I’m “calm,” I don’t know how to get back to whatever was trying to surface. I’m left thinking:
“I know I probably need to grieve this…
but I don’t even know how anymore.
The moment passed. The feeling is gone.
What am I supposed to do with that?”
Part of this series for me is deciding:
- I’m allowed to circle back.
- I’m allowed to revisit things that hurt, even if the original moment is over.
- I didn’t miss my only chance just because I swallowed it the first time.
When the Feelings Fade but the Impact Doesn’t
Another strange part of this is that it’s not like I sit around constantly feeling devastated about every old wound.
Most days, the grief itself doesn’t feel “there” in a loud, obvious way. I’m not crying about it. I can go about my day, joke around, function. If anything, it can feel flat—like whatever happened is “over.”
But the effects of what I haven’t grieved are still living in me.
They show up in how I react, what I expect, and how my body responds:
- When a long, serious text comes in from certain family members, my stomach drops before I even read it. I brace for spiritual lectures, accusations, or someone “explaining” me to myself.
- In hard conversations—especially with authority figures or strong personalities—I freeze, lose my words, or go blank. On the outside it can look like I don’t care or “have nothing to say.” Inside, I’m screaming my side of the story and cannot get it out.
- If someone is upset or disappointed, my first instinct is to assume I’m the problem, even before I know what’s actually going on. My brain jumps straight to, “What did I do wrong?”
- I over-explain and over-apologize, because deep down I expect to be misunderstood, talked over, or told my perception is wrong. I’m trying to cut off the criticism before it happens.
- I expect people to side with the louder, older, or more “spiritual-sounding” person—because that’s what has usually happened—so I walk into tense situations already feeling outnumbered.
- When someone wants to “meet and talk,” I don’t picture comfort or repair. I picture being cornered, corrected, or worn down until I give in. My body reacts like it’s walking back into a trap, even if the person in front of me isn’t trying to be harmful.
- Even in some of my safest places—church, Celebrate Recovery, and with certain people I deeply trust—it’s very easy for me to walk in already bracing for judgment or criticism. There’s a subtle paranoia that whispers, “What have they heard? Is there some new rumor that’s going to quietly change how they see me?”
That last one isn’t because I’m hiding some secret thing I feel guilty about. It’s because, in real life, people I never expected to turn their backs on me—or to share in, let alone believe, rumors—actually did. That’s been a repeated lived experience, not just a fear I made up.
And here’s the strange part: in those safe places, I’m not greeted with judgment, criticism, or harshness. I’m met with love, understanding, and genuine care. They haven’t decided I’m “too much” or “too messy.”
But my body doesn’t know that right away. The fear, the tension in my chest, the urge to shrink or scan the room… all of that shows up first. That disconnect—the loving reality in front of me and the fear I feel inside—is another indicator that I have unresolved grief and old “shell shock” I’m still unlearning.
So on the surface, it can look like the grief is gone:
I’m not crying.
I’m not talking about it all the time.
I’m functioning. I’m laughing. I’m living life.
But underneath, there’s still shell shock from things I never got to properly grieve. The way I see myself, what I expect from others, and how my nervous system reacts to conflict or disappointment all carry the imprint of those un-grieved experiences.
That’s a big part of why I’m doing this now.
Not because I want to live in the past, but because pretending I’m “fine” hasn’t erased anything. It just pushed it underground, where it quietly shapes how I move, trust, react, and protect myself.
When Tears Were Treated Like a Problem
Another reason grief feels so foreign to me is that my emotions weren’t treated as something normal and human. There were times my crying and sorrow were mocked—copied, exaggerated, turned into a performance. I wasn’t comforted; I was made to feel foolish for even having feelings. And when my pain had anything to do with my dad, it could get flipped so that he was the one people felt bad for instead of me.
There’s more I could say here, but the short version is this: my feelings were not treated as something to care for; they were treated as a problem to correct. That kind of environment teaches you very quickly that tears are dangerous, and eventually you stop even knowing how to let them out.
That’s the backdrop I’m bringing into this whole “learning to grieve” thing. I’m not starting at zero; I’m starting in the negatives.
Step One: Turning Vague Ache Into Specific Words
In my New Year’s resolution post, I talked about the idea of grief—how we can grieve more than just death, and how I’ve mostly only allowed myself to grieve pets and simple, “clean” losses.
This first step is different.
It’s less about categories and more about getting specific.
Instead of just thinking, “I probably have a lot to grieve,” I’m slowly starting to name actual moments and shifts, like:
- “I need to grieve the version of certain relationships I thought I had, and the reality that they may never look like that again.”
- “I need to grieve the girl I was when I still believed everyone close to me would naturally be on my side.”
- “I need to grieve the season where I could be the endlessly accommodating, pleasing version of myself and still feel relatively safe—because that version of me got hurt, and I can’t be her anymore.”
Practically, this looks like:
- Writing short, simple sentences in my journal that start with, “I think I need to grieve…”
- Letting myself acknowledge that certain events and conversations were more than “misunderstandings”—they were losses.
- Noticing when something still stings or tightens my chest, and instead of brushing it off, quietly admitting, “Yeah… that’s one of them.”
I’m not unpacking each one all the way yet. I’m not forcing myself to relive everything.
Right now, Step One is just this:
Stop calling it “no big deal”
and start calling it what it is:
something that actually hurt me.
Naming it doesn’t magically fix it.
But it gives me a starting point other than, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Step Two: Giving Myself More Than Three Seconds
Historically, my feelings have gotten about a three-second window:
- Emotion rises.
- Throat tightens.
- Deep breath. Blink. Look up.
- Shut it down. Move on.
Learning to grieve doesn’t mean I’m now crying nonstop. It looks more like this:
- Letting the tear actually fall instead of fighting it every single time
- Not instantly apologizing when my voice shakes
- Staying with the feeling for a minute or two instead of slamming the door on it
Sometimes that’s really small and practical:
- Letting myself cry in the car for a few minutes without “fixing” it
- Writing in my journal without editing my feelings mid-sentence
- Sitting in silence and saying, “That really did hurt me,” and not immediately following it with, “But I’m fine now, it’s not a big deal”
It still feels awkward and risky.
But it also feels honest in a way that “I’m fine” never did.
Step Three: Choosing Who Gets to See It
One thing I’m very clear on:
I am not doing this in front of everyone.
If grief is new and vulnerable for me, the last thing I need is to hand it to people who have already shown they’re not safe with my heart.
So I’m being intentional about staying close to the people who are safe to grieve around:
- The ones who support my growth instead of resenting it
- The ones who don’t shame my tears or rush me to “get over it”
- The ones who can hear, “I’m not okay today,” without turning it into a debate or a lecture
- The ones who love the current me—the woman with boundaries and a voice—not just the old version who was easy to control and easy to blame
Grief is scary enough on its own.
Grieving in front of unsafe people is almost impossible.
So part of “starting what I don’t know how to do” is giving myself permission to:
- Let my guard down with the few who have earned it
- Keep my guard up where I know my emotions won’t be handled gently
That’s not bitterness. That’s wisdom.
Step Four: Letting God Stay With Me In It
Here’s something important:
I’ve always let God see my messy version.
I’ve prayed things like:
- “God, this hurts beyond words.”
- “I know You’ve got this, but I don’t feel okay.”
- “Help me. I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m in anguish.”
Those prayers were genuine. I wasn’t faking it with Him.
The part I tend to skip is what comes after that.
Very quickly, I:
- Push it all back down
- Tell myself I’ve “left it at God’s feet”
- Move on before I’ve actually felt anything all the way through
Spiritually, I’m handing it to Him.
Emotionally, I’m slamming the door and walking away.
I don’t really know how to:
- Let Him sit with me in the feeling
- Let the process be slow and uncomfortable
- Trust that He’s working in and through it while I’m still in the middle of the mess
The truth is: I’m scared of my feelings.
They feel big and unpredictable.
I worry that if I really open that door with God—and don’t immediately shut it afterward—I’ll either drown in them or become someone I don’t recognize.
So part of learning to grieve, for me, is also learning to pray a little differently:
- “God, this hurts and I’m not going to rush away from it yet. Will You stay with me here?”
- “Please help me not just say I’m giving this to You, but actually let You into the part that feels unbearable.”
I’m not good at that yet. But I’m trying.
Step Five: I’m Not Aiming for Perfect—Just Real
When I made that New Year’s resolution to stand up for myself more a year or two ago, I didn’t suddenly become a boundary ninja.
I messed it up a lot.
- I stayed quiet when I wish I had spoken up.
- I agreed to things I didn’t want.
- I walked away from conversations thinking, “Ugh, I folded again.”
But I didn’t make the resolution to “stand up for myself perfectly.”
I made it to try.
And with practice, it slowly became more natural. Not effortless, but less impossible.
I’m treating grief the same way.
I’m not aiming to:
- Feel every feeling
- Cry at the “right” times
- Work through every hurt in a neat, linear way
My goal is much smaller:
Don’t slam every door.
Don’t swallow every tear.
Don’t dismiss every ache the second it appears.
I’m not trying to grieve perfectly.
I’m just trying to stop skipping grief completely.
For now, that’s enough.
If You Feel Like You “Missed Your Chance” Too
If you relate to any of this—if you learned to shut down, to laugh it off, to be “fine” while something inside of you went quiet—you’re not the only one.
You might feel like:
- You missed your window to grieve.
- It’s been too long.
- The moment has passed.
- You should be “over it” by now.
I’m learning that grief doesn’t actually expire.
You’re allowed to:
- Grieve something years later
- Feel sad about something you technically “moved on” from
- Admit that what happened back then is still echoing now
You don’t have to write a blog about it.
You don’t have to explain it to people who don’t care to understand.
You can start small:
- Name one thing you never really let yourself mourn.
- Give yourself more than three seconds with it.
- Tell one safe person, “I think this still hurts me.”
- Pray one honest, unpolished prayer and then stay with God in it for just a little bit longer than you usually would.
That counts as starting.
And starting is brave.
Where This Goes From Here
I don’t have a tidy ending for this.
I’m at the beginning of something I don’t really know how to do:
- Still learning to stand up for myself
- Still figuring out what healthy grief looks like
- Still scared of my own feelings sometimes
- Still fighting the urge to look up, blink fast, and change the subject
But I also know this:
- Skipping grief did not protect me.
- It just delayed my healing.
So this is Part One—of however many it takes.
I’ll probably fumble and repeat myself and circle back and learn new things as I go. But I’m choosing to keep going anyway.
Not because I love pain.
But because I finally love myself enough to stop pretending I don’t have any.