I didn’t expect grief to arrive layered, but that is exactly how it came. I am mourning the end of a thirteen-year marriage while grieving the loss of my grandfather, the man who raised me, protected me, and showed up in ways that shaped the core of who I am.
These losses did not arrive separately or politely. They collided, overlapping and compounding, leaving me to figure out how to keep standing while so much of my life was unraveling at once.
Thirteen years of marriage is not something you simply walk away from. It is a shared history built quietly over time. Inside jokes, routines, holidays, arguments, forgiveness, and hope. It is learning how to grow into adulthood alongside someone else, believing that you are building a future together. When my marriage ended, I didn’t just lose a partner; I lost the story I thought I was living. I grieve the “we” that shaped so many of my decisions, the plans that will never unfold, and the version of myself that existed inside that partnership. Even when an ending is necessary, even when it is chosen, it still leaves a deep and aching absence.
At the same time, I am grieving my grandfather. Not just as a grandparent, but as the man who raised me. The person who was my constant, my anchor, my example of steady love. He was the one who taught me what safety felt like, what it meant to show up, and how to keep going even when life was hard. Losing him feels like losing my foundation. His absence reaches into every part of my life, from the smallest moments to the biggest milestones I assumed he would always be there to witness.
What makes this season especially heavy is how these losses pull me in opposite directions. The end of my marriage forces me to let go of a future I once imagined. The death of my grandfather asks me to reckon with a past I can no longer revisit. One grief lives in what will never happen; the other lives in what can never be again because the trauma was so severe it nearly cost me my life. Together, they leave me feeling exposed on both ends of my life, as if the ground beneath me has given way all at once.
There are moments when the timing feels unbearably cruel. I find myself longing for my grandfather’s voice, his reassurance, and his steady presence, especially now, when everything feels uncertain. I wish I could sit with him, tell him how lost I feel, let him remind me that I will be okay. The ache of needing someone who is no longer here is a pain that words can barely hold.
Carrying this much grief is exhausting. Some days I don’t even know which loss I’m feeling; I just know that something hurts. I move more slowly now. I forget things. I find myself overwhelmed by moments that once felt manageable. Grief has a way of sneaking into the ordinary: empty spaces, quiet evenings, passing thoughts that suddenly feel too heavy to ignore.
And yet, I also know this: grief exists because love existed first. I loved deeply in my marriage. I was raised by a man who gave me unconditional love and stability. The depth of my pain reflects the depth of those connections. Grieving does not mean I failed: it means I showed up, I committed, I belonged. Both of these relationships shaped me, and losing them does not erase their value.
Healing, I am learning, is not about closure or moving on. It is not linear, and it cannot be rushed. Some days I feel strong, grounded, even hopeful. Other days, I feel undone by the weight of it all. Both are true. Both are part of this process. I am learning to give myself permission to grieve without judgment, to rest when I need to, and to acknowledge that surviving this season is enough.
Over time, I trust that the shape of my grief will change. The end of my marriage may someday feel less like collapse and more like clarity ... an ending that made room for growth I could not see before. The loss of my grandfather may soften into something gentler: a quiet presence I carry with me, his lessons and love woven into the way I move through the world.
For now, I'm just taking one day at a time. Sometimes one breath at a time. I hold both griefs carefully, knowing they are part of my story but not the whole of it.
Even in this season of profound loss, I am still here, still loving, still healing, still becoming.
And for today, that feels like all I can do.
