Introduction
“People look at you differently when you’re older and grieving. They think you’re strong. They think you’ve had your life. They think you’ll be okay. But the truth is, I lie awake at night wondering what I’m supposed to do with the years I have left.”
This chapter isn’t about how others can support you. It’s about what it feels like to be the one left behind—and how your gender, your age, your history, and the expectations around you shape the experience of mourning.
Because mourning doesn’t feel the same at 28 as it does at 62. And being a man doesn’t carry the same mourning script as being a woman. Our losses are all personal, but our social patterns still play a role in how we carry them—and how we are allowed to carry them.
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1. If You’re a Man, You’re Supposed to Be Strong
I’ve lost count of how many people have told me I’m “doing well” because I haven’t broken down in public. They mean it as a compliment, but what I hear is, “Don’t fall apart. Don’t cry. Don’t show weakness.”
For many men, especially those of us raised in a generation where emotions were private and tears were for funerals only, mourning is a lonely place. We walk out of the room when the crying starts. We keep ourselves busy. We try to “manage” grief like a to-do list. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel—it means we don’t always know how to feel in a way that’s socially acceptable.
Some of us become what I’ve come to call the “lone elephant”—moving slowly away from the herd, quietly disappearing from social spaces, losing connection. We don’t want to be a burden. We don’t want to be pitied. And we don’t always know how to ask for help.
The truth is, we can be crying on the inside while looking composed on the outside. But in a world that measures our “coping” by how dry our eyes are, that pain goes unseen—and often, unspoken.
Loneliness is dangerous. You start to wonder why you should keep going. You don’t want to wake up to an empty bed again. You start to think, What am I even living for now? That question gets louder with age.
And here’s the twist: the very thing we’re told to avoid—opening up—might be the thing that saves us.
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2. If You’re a Woman, You’re Expected to Be Open—but Still Graceful
For women, the expectations are different but just as complex. Society gives more space to cry, to share, to talk. But there’s often an invisible line you’re not meant to cross. You can be heartbroken, but you’re not supposed to be angry. You can be vulnerable, but not inconvenient. You can talk about your loss—but not too much, or too long.
And for older women, the message can feel eerily similar to what men receive: You’ve had your turn. You’ll be fine. But they’re not fine. They’ve lost decades of shared life, and with that, a language, a rhythm, a presence. The kids call and visit—but eventually they return to their own lives. And she’s left with the ache of empty rooms and no one to ask what to make for dinner.
Women often create support circles—friends, family, shared grieving spaces. But even in these circles, grief can begin to feel performative, even exhausting. You might feel the need to bring tea, bake something, host, be “pleasant” for others, even when your own energy is gone.
There’s pressure to “move forward” and “find the blessings.” And that pressure weighs heavier when you’re told, explicitly or not, that you’re “strong enough” to handle this on your own.
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3. Mourning Young: Life Was Just Beginning
If you’re young—in your 20s or early 30s—the grief may feel like a derailment. You had plans. You imagined a life with this person. You were supposed to build something together—careers, homes, children. And now, it’s gone.
People might call you resilient. They say, “You’re young—you’ll meet someone again.” Or “You have your whole life ahead of you.” They don’t understand that you didn’t want “someone”—you wanted the person you lost . They don’t understand that the life ahead of you now feels fractured, uncertain, unfamiliar.
Grieving young often means grieving without peers. Your friends are going to weddings, having babies, building futures. And you’re learning how to survive loss. It’s isolating.
And yet, there’s also something in you that still wants to live. You can feel that contradiction—grief and energy fighting inside you. You might have days where you want to stay in bed forever, and others where you impulsively book a trip, start a course, or go dancing until 2 a.m. That unpredictability can be confusing—but it’s not wrong.
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4. Mourning in Midlife: Holding Others While Falling Apart
If you’re in your 40s or 50s, grief often collides with responsibility. You might be raising kids, holding a demanding job, looking after elderly parents. Your own mourning becomes something you push to the back of your mind, because dinner has to be made. Because someone has to stay strong.
This is the age where you’re likely to feel split in half—one part of you breaking quietly, the other part still getting things done.
You may have support from children, siblings, friends. But you also may feel that everyone’s leaning on you. You may not get the chance to fall apart properly. Or if you do, you might feel like you’re letting others down.
You mourn in stolen moments—after school runs, in the bathroom, while driving. You smile through meetings. You cry in the laundry room. You scroll through their old texts while stirring the soup.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, you start wondering who you are now. Because you weren’t just their spouse or partner. You were part of a team. A duo. Now, it’s just you. And you’re not sure what you’re supposed to rebuild—or how.
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5. Mourning Later in Life: The Quietest Loneliness
There’s a unique ache to losing someone in your 60s, 70s, or beyond.
Not because grief hurts more—but because of what it takes away. The habits. The years. The long, quiet companionship. The language of glances. The way they knew your morning routine, your favorite chair, your deepest fears.
And now they’re gone.
People will say things like, “You had a good run.” “At least you had those years.” Or worse, “You’re lucky—you’re still healthy.”
But you don’t feel lucky. You feel like the best part of your day—the voice in the room, the shared cup of tea, the evening walks—has been ripped away. You’re told you’re strong, but you feel tired. Very tired.
And the most haunting question arises:
“What am I living for now?”
You’re not planning careers. You’re not raising kids. You’re not traveling the world. You’re just… here. And sometimes the idea of years ahead—without them—feels less like a gift and more like a sentence.
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6. The Deep Inner Question We All Face
No matter your age. No matter your gender. No matter your culture.
There is one question grief eventually asks us all:
“Who am I now?”
Because the loss strips away not just the person you loved—but the version of yourself that existed with them. And in their absence, you’re left to rebuild not just your future, but your identity.
The rebuilding looks different for all of us. Some find solace in faith. Some in routine. Some in creativity. Some in silence.
But the first step is acknowledging that this mourning experience is yours. It doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s. It is real. And it matters.
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7. Support Structures: The Different Nets We Fall Into
Grief is heavy, but the net that catches us when we fall looks very different depending on our age and gender.
If you’re a man—especially an older man—your support group may be limited. Other men often feel uncomfortable if you open up about deep emotions, tears, or loneliness. The cultural script says, “Shake it off, keep busy, don’t dwell on it.” That means your circle may talk to you about sport, politics, or the weather, but not about the gaping hole in your life. For some, the most effective lifeline is professional help—a counsellor, therapist, or grief group—because it creates a safe, structured space where emotion is not only allowed, but welcomed.
For older women, the pattern is different. The social group often instinctively gathers—friends come by with meals, sit with you over tea, and encourage you to share your memories. There is a stronger cultural permission for women to express grief openly, which means they may have a more immediate and consistent emotional safety net. But even here, there are challenges. Sometimes the support fades too quickly, or friends are so focused on “cheering you up” that they forget you still need to talk about your loss months or years later.
For the younger generation, support often comes from family—especially parents, if they are still alive—and from their closest friends. Younger mourners might find themselves having long late-night conversations with siblings, spending weekends at their childhood home, or leaning on one or two loyal friends who are willing to sit in the sadness without trying to fix it. But they also face the reality that many of their peers haven’t experienced deep loss, so they may not fully understand the depth or duration of grief.
In every case, the kind of support available—and the way it is offered—is shaped by unspoken cultural rules. Recognizing those patterns doesn’t just help us see where we might be missing support—it also gives us permission to go and find it elsewhere, without guilt.
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8. Support from Faith and Religious Communities
For many people, faith communities become a natural place to seek comfort during mourning. Whether it’s a church, mosque, synagogue, temple, or meditation group, the shared belief system can make it easier to speak about loss in a way that feels understood.
Older mourners often have the strongest ties here. They may already know the minister, priest, imam, or group leader personally, and the rituals of the faith—prayers, memorial services, scripture readings—can feel like a steady hand to hold. For men, the structured and purposeful nature of these gatherings can make it easier to be present without feeling pressured to talk too openly. For women, the warmth of fellowship and shared prayer circles can feel deeply grounding, especially in the weeks immediately after the loss.
Younger mourners might connect differently. For some, the religious space is where they grew up, so returning there feels familiar and comforting. For others, especially if they’ve drifted away from organized religion, the rituals may feel distant or even uncomfortable. Yet even then, the presence of a faith community—people bringing food, offering prayers, or simply sitting beside you—can create a sense of belonging in a time when life feels unanchored.
The strength of religious community support often lies in its rhythm. The weekly services, the regular check-ins, the anniversaries remembered in prayer—these become touchpoints that remind you that your loved one’s name, and your grief, are still being held by others.
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Conclusion: Your Way is the Right Way
You may be the lone elephant. Or you may gather your herd. You may cry daily. Or not at all. You may plant trees. Or you may travel. Or you may stay home and pull grass from the edge of the deck while talking to the person who is no longer there.
You are allowed to miss them in whatever way you need.
You are allowed to ask the hard questions.
You are allowed to say, “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
And you are allowed to keep going—not because you’re strong, not because others say you must—but because deep down, something in you still hopes for joy.
Even if you don’t see it yet.
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Reflective Questions
1. Has your age or gender shaped how others expect you to grieve? How has it shaped how you see yourself?
2. Have you felt like the “lone elephant”? What does reconnection look like for you?
3. What are the hard questions you’re sitting with? (e.g., “What am I living for now?”)
4. What kind of support do you wish you could ask for, even if you haven’t yet?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I’ve learned that mourning is shaped by a hundred things—age, gender, personality, culture. But underneath it all, there’s one truth: mourning is the echo of love that had nowhere else to go.
Because of Angé, I no longer expect my grief to look like anyone else’s. And I no longer judge anyone else’s way. I’ve seen how a woman in her 30s grieves differently from a man in his 70s—and yet the longing, the emptiness, the search for meaning, are all the same.
Because of Angé, I’ve come to believe that no matter your age, the years ahead are not a sentence—they are an unwritten chapter. And while I don’t yet know the shape of mine, I know that the pen is still in my hand.
