How can I live when they don't?
If you've ever felt guilty for "still" being sad months or years after a loss, or been bewildered by a wave of sorrow that knocks you over on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, you're not failing. You're following a deeper, more intelligent rhythm than any simple list of "stages" can capture.
The Problem with the Map
We're handed a map for grief that looks like a linear path: Shock, Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. It's a clean progression. But we know it's not so simple.
It doesn't move in one direction. You don't leave "Anger" behind at mile marker three. Instead, you might feel a genuine sense of acceptance one morning, only to find yourself blindsided by raw anger that evening.
You might feel like you're failing, like you're losing progress. But what if you're not lost? What if the map's wrong?
The Reframe: Rebuilding, Not Leaving
Here's a different way to see it: Grief isn't the process of leaving a place called "Loss." It's the process of learning to live in a world that's been fundamentally, irrevocably altered.
The loss itself becomes a permanent feature of your inner landscape, a deep valley carved by love. You don't "get over" a valley. You don't fill it in. You learn the new shape of the land. You build new paths around it. You discover where the light falls differently now.
The work of grief is less about moving away from who you lost, and more the slow process of building a new life around the truth of their absence. You aren't moving on. You're carrying forward.
The Two Necessary Moments of Grief
So how does this rebuilding actually feel? Psychologists Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut, in their Dual Process Model of Grief, suggest that healthy grieving isn't one continuous state; it's an oscillation between two necessary modes:
1. Loss-Orientation
Confronting the pain, the memories, the void.
2. Restoration-Orientation
Engaging with life, new roles, and distractions.
This resonated deeply because it names the back-and-forth so many feel but blame themselves for. I've found it helpful to translate these modes into lived experiences of grief.
1. Moments of Rupture
These are the moments the loss washes over you. You feel it in your body: a weight in your chest, a fatigue that sleep won't touch, a sudden catch in your throat. You might seek out old photos, or a memory might ambush you while you're doing the dishes. These moments, the pain is all you can focus on.
This is the work of honoring the truth. You're tending to the love that's now expressed as pain.
2. Moments of Coherence
Then, there are moments when life gently, or forcefully, calls you back. You have to go to work. Your child needs lunch. You lose yourself in a project, share a laugh with a friend, or get curious about something new. This is often met with guilt, "How can I laugh when they are gone?", but that guilt is a misunderstanding. This is your reconstruction.
You aren't betraying your love by engaging with life. You're gathering momentum, connection, and skill to build the structures your new world requires.
The Healing Is in the Oscillation
The healing isn't in choosing one over the other. The healing's in the oscillation. The back-and-forth is the process. The Moments of Rupture soften the ground of your heart, making it receptive. The Moments of Coherence lay down new pathways of living. One day, you realize the pain is a little less overwhelming. That's progress.
A Practical Takeaway: How to Navigate
How do you work with this rhythm, instead of fighting it? Start by simply noticing.
In moments of Rupture:
Don't fight it.
If you need to, set a gentle boundary, "I'll let this wash over me for the next twenty minutes". Then, let it be. Put a hand on your heart. Write one true sentence in a notes app: "Today, their absence is heavy."
Your only task is to acknowledge, "This is a Moment of Rupture. I'm hurting."
In moments of Coherence:
Lean into it.
Fully immerse yourself in the conversation, the task, the sun on your face. When the whisper of guilt comes, gently reply: "This is Coherence. I am gathering strength. This, too, is part of the love." You're not forgetting. You're living.
The most powerful step is the first one: naming which moment it is. "Ah, this is Rupture." That simple act creates a tiny, crucial space between you and the pain. In that space, a flicker of compassion can enter. You become the witness to your grief, not just its victim.
The New Measure of Progress
Let go of the old measure of progress, which was "feeling less pain." It will betray you.
Instead, try on these new measures:
- Progress is Rupture coming a little less often.
- Progress is Rupture, when it comes, feeling a little less like it will destroy you.
- Progress is finding that the person you lost is becoming woven into the fabric of who you are.
- Progress is the slow realization that you're not returning to an old you that no longer exists.
Closing Thoughts
I can't say you'll find an end to the journey, that you'll ever get over it. What I can say is, slowly but surely, you'll become a more skillful, compassionate navigator of your transformed life.
You'll become someone with more resilience, more depth, and even renewed love, traversing a more complex reality you now call normal.