Introduction: Forget the Rules
There are no six steps to mourning.
No neat pathway to “new behaviours.”
No twelve-step guide to emotional recovery.
Mourning is not a self-help program. It’s not a course you graduate from. It’s not a checklist where you tick off “denial” and “acceptance” and then move on with your life.
It’s messier than that.
It’s more unpredictable than that.
And — most importantly — it’s yours.
The world will try to hand you a framework: This is how people grieve. This is what you should do. This is how long it should last.
But those frameworks aren’t written for you. They’re written to make other people feel more comfortable around your pain.
There is no timetable, no moral scorecard, and no single “correct” set of behaviours. Your mourning will not look like mine. Mine will not look like yours. And both will be valid.
This chapter is not about teaching you a process.
It’s about giving you permission — permission to mourn in a way that makes sense to you, even if no one else understands it.
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Mourning as a State of Being
Mourning is not a mood. It’s not a specific feeling.
It’s a state of being — a condition you carry, like a quiet undercurrent in your life.
Some days, that undercurrent shows itself clearly.
You might feel sadness and call it grief.
You might feel frustration and call it mourning anger.
You might withdraw from company because you can’t bear the noise of the world.
You might tell someone, “Today is a hard day,” and let them see that your loss is close to the surface.
And other days, it’s the opposite.
You might laugh freely.
You might work all day without a single thought of the person you lost.
You might sit in good company and realise — genuinely — that this is a good day.
There are also days that shift halfway through.
You could start the morning light and easy, only for a scent, a song, or an unexpected question to pull you under in seconds.
You could wake heavy, certain you’ll need to avoid people — only to find yourself later sitting in the sun, talking and laughing with someone you trust.
That doesn’t mean you’ve stopped mourning.
It means the behaviour of mourning, the visible expressions of it, are simply at bay. The current is still there, running quietly beneath everything you do.
This is why mourning is not an easily identifiable state of being. It can’t be spotted on sight. It’s not an identifiable set of feelings, either — because feelings change. They are different for everyone, and they are different for you from one day to the next.
Mourning is the backdrop to all these emotions, not the emotion itself. It’s the frame in which your daily experiences are painted. Some days the frame is invisible. Some days it’s the first thing you see.
There Is No Universal Mourning Behaviour
Let’s be very clear: there is no single behaviour that defines mourning.
You can’t say someone is mourning just because they’re crying. They might be sad about something else.
You can’t say someone is mourning just because they’re angry. That could be about something entirely different.
And you definitely can’t say someone is not mourning just because they seem okay.
Mourning is invisible unless we’re told it’s there.
There are no badges.
There are no clues.
There is no way to look at someone and know, “they are mourning” — unless they choose to show you.
So what is mourning behaviour?
It’s the behaviour that you choose in response to loss.
And it will not look the same for you as it does for anyone else.
If you passed me on the street, you wouldn’t know I was mourning.
I don’t wear black.
I don’t cry in public.
And yet — I am mourning, every day.
That’s the strange thing about mourning. It doesn’t have a uniform. There’s no handshake, no look in the eye, no phrase you can say or hear that proves: “Ah yes, they are in mourning.”
Mourning is not visible. But it’s real.
It’s private. But sometimes public.
It’s in everything. And yet, sometimes, it looks like nothing at all.
You Set the Tone for Your Mourning
Some people walk.
Some people cry.
Some people throw themselves into work.
Some people stay in bed for days.
Some people write.
Some people shout.
Some people do nothing.
Each one of those is mourning. And none of them are wrong.
Your mourning behaviour is not what your family expects.
It’s not what your religion prescribes.
It’s not what your friends suggest.
It’s what you do with the pain you’re carrying.
Your mourning behaviour is yours to create — and it will evolve.
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Private vs Public Mourning: You Choose Both
There’s mourning behaviour that is private — those quiet, unseen rituals:
• You make coffee and pour two mugs even though only one will be drunk.
• You sleep on one side of the bed.
• You keep their toothbrush.
• You wear their watch on days when you need strength.
• You read their favourite book again, underlining the passages they loved.
And then there’s public mourning behaviour — the choices you make around others:
• You might cry during a meeting.
• You might laugh too loudly at a story because you want to feel something again.
• You might wear their scarf to a dinner.
• You might speak their name when everyone else avoids it.
• You might post a photograph online with no caption, trusting those who know will understand.
The point is this:
You choose how to behave — both alone and in company.
You choose how much to reveal.
You choose how much space to take up.
You choose whether to say, “I am grieving,” or whether to keep it sacred and silent.
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You Are Allowed to Mourn Your Way
Grief does not come with rules. So don’t let others hand you a script.
If your mourning looks like planting sunflowers across a continent — let it.
If it looks like silence and staying home — honour that.
If it looks like dancing, or weeping, or baking, or hiking, or writing, or sitting — it’s still mourning.
There is no committee deciding whether you’re doing it right.
Mourning is not a test. It is an experience.
You do not owe anyone an explanation.
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You Set the Boundaries — And They’re Flexible
One of the most important parts of mourning is deciding where your boundaries are — and remembering that those boundaries are allowed to shift.
You might be open to talking about your loss one day, and completely closed off the next.
You might want visitors this week and crave solitude the following week.
You might be comfortable with someone mentioning the name of the person you’ve lost today, but tomorrow, even hearing that name might feel like a punch in the chest.
That is normal.
Sometimes your boundaries will surprise even you. You might set out to go to a social gathering, determined to stay, but find yourself stepping outside halfway through, standing in the quiet just to catch your breath. You might answer the phone thinking you’re ready for a conversation — and then realise within seconds that you can’t do it right now.
Mourning is a state of being, but it’s not a fixed state. The boundaries you set are there to protect you in this moment — not to lock you into a permanent position.
You’re allowed to say, “Not today,” without explaining why.
You’re allowed to say, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” and never follow up if you don’t get there.
You’re allowed to tell people what you need in the simplest, clearest way — without cushioning your words to make them feel more comfortable.
Boundaries are not rude.
Boundaries are not selfish.
Boundaries are survival.
And the beauty of them is that they can move as you move. They are yours to shift, adjust, or remove entirely — based on where you are in your day, your week, or your year.
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When People Overstep Your Boundaries
Some people will respect your boundaries.
Some people won’t.
Sometimes, it’s because they genuinely care and don’t realise they’re overstepping.
Sometimes, it’s because your way of mourning makes them uncomfortable, and they want to fix you.
And sometimes — harsh truth — it’s because they think they know better than you about how you should grieve.
When that happens, you are entitled to be firm.
You are entitled to say:
• “Please stop asking me to come out. I’ve already said no.”
• “I don’t want to talk about this today.”
• “Stop making me feel bad about feeling bad.”
• “Stop making me feel bad about not wanting to be around people.”
• “Stop telling me how to mourn — I will mourn my way.”
But strength doesn’t have to mean burning bridges.
You don’t have to alienate someone to protect yourself.
You can hold your position without turning it into a fight.
The key is to be clear and respectful, even when you are being direct. You’re not out to punish the person — you’re out to protect yourself. That means using words that draw a firm line, but not words that deliberately wound.
If they are genuinely trying to support you, this clarity will help them understand where they fit into your life right now. If they are simply being intrusive or unkind, it will make your limits known without leaving scorched earth behind you.
Your aim is not to drive people away, but to ensure they meet you where you are — not where they think you should be.
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Conclusion: You Set the Pace
Your mourning behaviour sets the tone for your new behaviour patterns. It tells the world, “This is how I will carry this loss. This is how I will honour it.”
It is not performative.
It is not perfect.
It is not consistent.
It is yours.
You may not get to choose the loss — but you do get to choose how you live with it.
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I’ve learned that mourning isn’t always still and silent.
When she died, I didn’t sit in the corner of a quiet room and cry for days — though I thought I might. Instead, I walked. I wrote. I spoke. I planted. I reached out.
And for a while, I questioned myself: Was I mourning the right way?
But then I remembered how Angé lived. She was never one for long silences or private suffering. She mourned people by cooking meals for their families, by lighting candles, by cleaning beaches, by laughing at memories and helping others through theirs.
So I chose to mourn like her — not by collapsing, but by creating. Not by hiding, but by walking straight into the pain with movement and purpose.
Because of Angé, I gave myself permission to mourn in the way that made sense to me.
And I’ve realised — that is the only way mourning ever works.
