Grief, God, and the Quiet Holiness of Missing Someone

Grief Is Part of the Love Story

I wasn’t expecting to feel this much.

That’s the thing about grief—it sneaks in when we least expect it. One moment you’re moving through your day, doing what needs to be done, and the next, you’re stopped in your tracks by a wave of emotion you didn’t see coming. It catches you off guard. It humbles you. It reminds you just how deeply you loved.

Shortly after the news of Pope Francis's passing, I found myself reflecting even more on the nature of grief and faith. The loss of a spiritual leader—someone whose presence has quietly anchored millions—stirs something personal in so many of us. For me, it reminded me how intertwined grief and belief can be. How sometimes, the one thing we’ve been pushing away is actually the one thing we need the most.

What I’ve learned—through the loss of my dad, and through walking alongside so many others navigating grief—is that grief is sacred. It’s not something to be rushed or fixed. There’s a quiet holiness in missing someone so deeply. A stillness that doesn’t demand answers or solutions—only presence.

Grief invites us to slow down. To simply stay.

It asks us to show up—to ourselves, and one another. To sit in the silence, even when it’s uncomfortable. Because love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It shifts. It softens. It finds new ways to live on in us.

Grief isn’t a detour. It’s not a sign that something has gone wrong. It’s part of the love story.

That’s what I’ve come to understand more deeply in recent years. I recently made a decision I never expected to make: I chose to be confirmed into the Catholic Church. It wasn’t part of my plan. In fact, it was something that I rejected for most of my life. My father was a Catholic man who often found himself conflicted by the teachings of the church throughout my childhood. Upon his passing, I was told that he came back to his faith in the months leading up to his death. I’d kept Catholicism at arm’s length for a long time. But grief has a way of opening us—of cracking something in us wide enough to let something new in.

What came in for me was faith; what I once rejected ended up being the one thing that I needed the most.

Not blind certainty, but a quiet, steady belief that I wasn’t walking this road alone. That my dad, in some mysterious way, was still with me. That God was still with me. And that maybe the stillness I’d been sitting in wasn’t empty at all—it was sacred.

So if you’re feeling it today—if the ache is loud or the tears are close—I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m with you in it.

And I promise: there’s no shame in missing them. There’s something sacred in the missing.

Grief Isn’t the End of the Story: Why Staying with Pain Matters

Grief doesn’t come with a manual.
It arrives uninvited—disorienting, all-consuming, and deeply personal. One moment you're going about your day, and the next, the ground beneath you disappears.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

Six months after completing graduate school, I lost my father to suicide. That single sentence still catches in my throat. At the time, I thought I was prepared for life—I had degrees, training, and a clear plan. But no amount of education could prepare me for the kind of pain that shattered every assumption I had about life and death.

What No One Tells You About Grief

What shocked me most wasn’t just the pain—it was the isolation.

The world is incredibly unprepared when it comes to grief. People offer “at least” statements that they believe will soften the blow:

• “At least he was at your wedding.”

• “At least you had time to say goodbye.”

• “At least he’s in a better place.”

Here’s the thing:
You don’t know the significance of a moment until it becomes a memory.
You don’t understand the sacredness of being walked down the aisle until you realize it was the last time.
You don’t recognize the value of a conversation until it’s one you can’t have again.

Grief Is Sacred (Even When It’s Silent)

In the early days, I tried to hold it all together. I masked the pain, stayed busy, and told myself I was okay. But I wasn’t. And not doing anything wasn’t working.

Almost a year after my dad’s death, I finally sought help.
I stopped trying to do it alone.
And in that moment, I began to heal.

Here’s what I know now: grief doesn’t need to be fixed—it needs to be witnessed.
We don’t need the perfect words.
We need presence.
We need people willing to sit with us in the dark without rushing to turn the light on.

Finding Purpose in Pain

Today, I have a private practice focused on grief, trauma, and loss.
I walk alongside people navigating the very pain I once thought I wouldn’t survive.

My mission is simple: no one should feel as alone as I did.

Grief doesn’t end. But it changes. It softens. It reveals.
And through it, we can find a new kind of connection—with ourselves, with others, and with those we’ve lost.

If You’re Grieving...

Let me say this clearly:
You are not broken.
You are not too much.
And you are not alone.

Your grief deserves space.
Your love deserves to be honored.
And you deserve support that sees the whole you.

Grief isn’t the end of the story.
It’s a continuation of your love.
And love always stays.

Looking for grief support?

I specialize in helping individuals navigate grief after sudden or traumatic loss. Whether you're newly grieving or years into your journey, I’m here to support you.

➡️ Click here to learn more about my services

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Let’s make sure no one has to grieve alone.