What IS Grief Anyway?

Part 1: Grief Definitions

When people ask how I came to the work of being a grief educator, I usually say it’s because of my own grief. That is true, of course, but the reason I’ve stuck with it and am determined to do it for as long as I’m needed is because I find grief interesting.

It occurred to me that I should probably talk about what grief means to me, so you know where I’m coming from in my work and, especially, in the things I say and write. First, I’ll talk about what the word “grief” means, and then I’ll talk about what it means to me and my work.

Grief: 

/ɡrēf/ : deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement (Merriam Webster Online)

Keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret. (Dictionary.com)

The anguish experienced after significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person. (APA)

Grief is the experience of coping with loss. (Cleveland Clinic)

Grief is the response to the loss of something deemed important, particularly to the death of a person to whom or animal to which a bond or affection was formed. (Wikipedia)

Grief is an ongoing and evolving experience involving cognitive, emotional, physical, and behavioral responses to a loss. (What’s Your Grief)

Grief is the energetic reaction to loss (Meghan Riordan Jarvis, Can Anyone Tell Me?, p.6)

Look, my inner pedant is screaming that starting with dictionary definitions is lazy and trite writing, and it may be, but I think these definitions show that grief needs to be taken seriously. All of the definitions above use the word “loss” to define grief (except the Merriam Webster, which uses “bereavement;” their definition of bereavement includes the word “deprived,” which I rather like), because that’s what causes grief, if you will.

I like the simplicity of the Cleveland Clinic definition, though the word “loss” can be too loosely understood here. Most people will not grieve if they lose something insignificant to them, such as a hair tie or a pen. 

The Wikipedia definition clarifies loss as something deemed important. “Deemed” is notable because it suggests that loss can be more or less important depending on the person’s relationship to that thing or person. This is why it’s normal to grieve when a celebrity dies; if a celebrity had an influence on your life or you deemed them important, you may grieve. I remember being surprised at how sad I was when John Lewis died. I grieved his death because what he did for civil rights and what he represented are important to my worldview. The only thing this definition is missing is that one can also feel grief for a place, thing, belief, or an idea about a future event or relationship.

Here’s an example of feeling grief over an idea about the future. In late 2019, my partner, Brian, and I were starting to dream about living abroad for six months. We made a list of all the places we would love to visit; we researched the visa rules in different countries and regions; and we discussed how we would finance the move. And then we all know what happened in March of 2020. Our dream was indefinitely put on hold. Of course I was also stressed and lonely–giving up the privilege of travel was not the only thing causing grief–but I absolutely mourned losing that chance. Our priorities changed, so we moved to Seattle instead of overseas, but I still long for that dream that didn’t happen.

Like the Wikipedia definition, grief experts Meghan Riordan Jarvis and the folks at What’s Your Grief both talk about the response or reaction to the loss event. This highlights the relationship between the griever and the person, animal, or thing that is lost. This is important: relationships are how we navigate the world.

These definitions, as well as the APA and Cleveland Clinic definitions, use words like “experience” and “energetic,” indicating that the response isn’t passive, but active. We feel when we’re grieving. 

All of these definitions (except maybe the dictionary definitions) resonate with me. I viscerally understand my response to the death of my sister and my parents as grief. I know that grief shows up for me not only as tears and sadness, but also as mysterious aches and ailments, as brain fog, as low energy, as anxiety, as fear, as a desire to talk about Sarah as much as possible, as irritability, as longing and melancholy, as replaying conversations with my mom, as dreams asking Sarah to not be dead anymore, as dreams where I yell at my mom or get advice from my dad (maybe something to unpack there), and any number of responses felt physically and emotionally.

“What or whom do you grieve, and how?”

It’s fascinating to me that grief can be all those things, plus more, like guilt and regret, like ambition, like avoidance, like a lack of appetite or constant hunger, and that we continue to live in spite of (or because of) our loss. I am endlessly curious about how grief presents itself in other people. I want to hear your story. What or whom do you grieve, and how?

Grief doesn’t go away

I firmly believe that grief does not go away. I also know that we can adapt to a new way of being that gives room to the grief. I’ve learned not to fight it, but to let it be what it needs to be at that moment. Sure, I might put it aside if it would be inconvenient to cry or to stay in bed for the day, but I try to acknowledge it when it happens. If I can’t cry right then, I might pause for a moment and think about what I’m feeling and why that particular memory or thought stirred me. Giving the grief a moment of attention often allows me to carry on without alarming the people around me. If I can, I try to return to that thought when it’s more convenient to let the tears loose. Trust me, it doesn’t always work so neatly!

A few weeks ago, in a dance class, they played a song with the lyrics “I'm missing you/(Although I'm missing you)/Missing you/(I'll find a way to get through)/I'll find a way, I'll find a way, I'll find a way/'Cause you were my sister (you were my sister), my strength and my pride.” Of course I cried! I could not hold back the tears when every word of the song pulled my heartstrings into a knot. Thankfully, it was a safe space where tears were welcomed (and it was dark)!

Grief changes you

My parents died more than twenty years ago. I still grieve for them, but it looks different now than it did 24 and 22 years ago. Back then I would sink into a daze, just staring into the distance without a thought in my head. I developed a mysterious ailment because I didn’t know it was okay to cry a lot when your mom dies. I made a lot of jokes and brushed off the well-wishers (a habit I have yet to break). I didn’t grieve the same way that I did after Sarah died. That was capital-D Deep grief and intense.

It was also a learning experience. I started reading books about grief, and I found a grief group to support me. Just like when my parents died, I was reminded how fortunate I am to have the friends that I have who support me and love me without hesitation. I had to learn to use different coping tools to make it through the day–some of them I still use. In fact, I used to become anxious if I did any sort of breathwork, and I couldn’t do yoga because of it. Now, I use breathing exercises to calm my nervous system and to settle my overactive brain, and I’ve been to three or four yoga classes! Not to mention participating in the yoga component of the Heart Tending Grief & Yoga workshop I present with Daisha.

I am a different person than I was four years ago, or 25 years ago. I like who I am now, though I’d return to an anxious, whiny, perfectionist who doesn’t do yoga in a heart beat if I could have Sarah back.

Grief is Precious

This is why I think grief is precious. I hold onto the memories–good and bad– the advice–also good and bad–and the pain because they are representations of who Sarah is and was to me. I think of the grief I have for Sarah, or for my parents, as a small gemstone that I place on a soft cushion on a special shelf in my heart. I don’t tuck it away–it has pride of place and is easily accessible so I can show you what she means to me.

Here’s a quote from Sophie Strand’s book, The Body is a Doorway, which I read in Grief Spells by Mara June:

“Don’t separate your hurt. Don’t clean it up or try to locate and understand it. No. Get so soft and big around it that it can’t keep its shape and color. Get bigger. Wider. Wilder. I no longer want to remove these pains and glitches. I want to turn into an ocean around them so that they have no choice but to dissolve, dilute, and join the liquid dancework of my leaky, loving, hardly legible self.”

I want to dissolve the hurt, but keep the precious parts, like my memories. Let’s expand ourselves. This is what I try to guide grievers towards, but I haven’t had these exact words until now, thanks to Mara June (who creates spaces where I have been able to broaden my understanding of grief and creatively dissolve some of the pain).

In my next post, I’ll talk about some of the different types of grief and my thoughts on grief in society.

In the meantime, I am accepting new one-on-one clients, and there are grief support groups and circles, as well as collaborative workshops, where grievers can cry openly while they share the precious stories about their loved ones or about their losses. I’d love to see you there and hear your story.