3,968 Quotes About Grief

I felt like I was in the middle of a slow-motion shipwreck. The ship was sinking, and no one could change that. I could barely tread water in the swirling, debris-ridden sea of emotions--fighting to keep my nose above the waves, struggling for each breath.

I was grieving the way the earth seems to grieve for spring in the dead of winter, but I wasn't afraid, because nothing, I told myself, can take our halcyon days away.

A litter was quickly formed, and Aubrey was laid by the side of her who had lately been to him the object of so many bright and fairy visions, now fallen with the flower of life that had died within her. He knew not what his thoughts were--his mind was benumbed and seemed to shun reflection, and take refuge in vacancy--he held almost unconsciously in his hand a naked dagger of a particular construction, which had been found in the hut.

I finally understand the meaning of acceptance on the grief chart. It’s not that the bereaved ever accepts the death of the loved one—I will never accept your death—it’s that you come to accept that these really are your shitty, irreversible circumstances.

How does a person manage a loss that isn't?

In a time of grief, it's the symbols that cut the deepest--the single red shoe in a pile of dusty gray war rubble, the grease-stained recipe card in Grandma's handwriting, the flag-draped casket saluted at the airport, the first wildflower that pushes its way through the ashes of last year's forest fire, the guitar whose voice would never be heard.

That's the Zach I wanted back. The son I knew and loved. But it seemed almost greedy to long for that. He was alive. Shouldn't I be grateful? How dare I say it wasn't enough?

It became all the more obvious that people--no matter their age or what brought them to that place--grieve in different ways and on different timetables.

When a loss is ambiguous, no public ceremony acknowledges the loss and its fallout, or honors the memory of the loved one. It was true for us. People still were unsure how to respond to the endlessness of our unique form of loss. Should they grieve with us or pretend life was fine now that Zach had lived through it all? Would we resent it if they didn't mention the injury, or if they did?