When Grief Feels Like Rapids

In this moment, I feel stuck. Like I’m being pulled into the center—the eye—of white rapids as they crash against one another with anger, fury, and relentless force. The current pushes and pulls, leaving me gasping for air, unsure of which way is up.

That is how grief feels for me right now.

Working in the mental health and public health fields, especially alongside grief and loss, I know all too well that grief doesn’t follow a neat or predictable path. It isn’t a box to check off or a ladder to climb. The stages—anger, sadness, denial, bargaining, acceptance—don’t line up in perfect order. They weave in and out, overlap, and sometimes return when we least expect them. Grief is messy. It’s unpredictable. It refuses to follow the rules we wish to impose on it.

And yet, two things can be true. Grief is an unexpected and painful process. But grief is also a powerful reminder that love—deep, life-shaping love—existed, and still exists.

I’ll be honest: I don’t feel like holding onto that “beautiful” truth right now. The rawness is too loud, the ache too sharp. But I know, even if I can’t fully embrace it in this moment, it matters that I keep it somewhere in my heart and in my mind. It’s the thread that keeps me tethered to light, even when the waters feel unbearable. It’s a reminder that grief is the shadow side of love—and that shadow only exists because love was first present.

The Companions of Grief

For me, grief never arrives alone. It comes with uninvited companions: guilt and shame.

As someone with lived experience of mental health challenges, I’ve spent decades learning to quiet those voices. Therapy, tools, intentional practices—they’ve all been part of my survival and growth. And yet, when grief surges, guilt and shame grow louder.

There’s guilt when things don’t go the way they should have. Guilt for the moments I missed—birthdays, milestones, opportunities. Sometimes even understandable absences, like being sick with the flu and missing a weekend trip, leave me haunted by “what ifs” and “should haves.”

And then there’s the deeper guilt and shame: the shame of 18 years spent hiding from life. After trauma, I pulled back so far from the world that I wasn’t even on the sidelines—I was outside the stadium, watching from a distance. I cheered for others, celebrated their wins, but kept myself tucked away, terrified that being an active participant in my life would equate to being hurt again.

Now, grief reminds me of what those years cost: memories I may never share with loved ones, milestones that may never come. And that ache, layered with shame and guilt, can be suffocating.

What Grief is Teaching Me

Still, in its own heavy-handed way, grief has been teaching me. It has reminded me to slow down, to step outside of autopilot, to notice the life happening around me right now.

It has pushed me to:

• Be more intentional with those I love, even when life feels busy or overwhelming.

• Work at lowering my stress so I can actually be present when I show up.

• Dare to put myself first, even when everything in me wants to shrink back.

• Take risks with connection, even knowing that pain will always be a possibility.

Because hiding doesn’t protect me from pain—it only magnifies it. Avoiding life doesn’t shield me from loss—it steals the chance to live fully.

I’ve come to believe, both through my lived experience and as a professional in the field, that healing often begins the moment we feel heard. And as human beings, we are wired for connection—yes, even those of us who are deeply introverted. (And I’m as introverted as they come.) Connection doesn’t have to be grand or loud; it just has to be real. And it matters, because none of us are meant to carry the joys or the heaviness in silence.

A Gentle Invitation

So, wherever you are right now, I invite you to pause.

Take a slow, deep breath.
Notice one thing around you that brings you even the smallest bit of comfort.
Remember the moments of wonder you’ve already experienced.
And allow yourself—even for just a moment—to step into the possibility of what’s ahead with curiosity and peace.

You don’t have to figure it all out. You don’t have to rush through your grief. You don’t have to pretend it isn’t messy.

What you can do, gently, is give yourself space. The space to hurt and feel the feelings. The space to reach out to someone. The space to love. The space to remember that your grief itself is evidence of love—that someone or something mattered enough to leave an imprint that will never fade.

And that is a beautiful thing worth celebrating.

Grief may feel like rapids, unpredictable and consuming. But love can be the anchor that steadies us, even when we can’t see the shore in this present moment. But we will see the shore again. We will plant our feet firmly on the ground again. We will continue to find beauty in the journey.

And perhaps most importantly, we do not have to navigate these waters alone.

Wherever this finds you, know that your story matters, your grief is valid, and your heart deserves gentleness.

Thank you for being here with us!

Katherine, Quiet Comforts Blog