“Grief is a storm of emotions. It doesn’t ask permission to arrive, and it rarely leaves quietly.”
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Opening Reflection — The Rage in the Kitchen
It was three days after Angé died. I was standing in the kitchen, washing a coffee cup she had last used. The mug still smelled faintly of cinnamon. Someone had sent another casserole, and the kitchen was full of neatly labeled tupperware containers filled with love — and yet I wanted to smash them all.
The grief wasn’t soft or poetic in that moment. It was sharp. Loud. Ugly. I wanted to scream. I was furious — at life, at cancer, at time, at God. At her for leaving me. At myself for not saving her. That rage didn’t make sense. But it was real. And it needed to be felt.
Hard grief emotions come uninvited. They don’t ask permission. They sit in the corner of your mind and wait until you’re vulnerable. Then they rise — like a tide — and drown you for a while. This chapter is about those emotions. The ones we don’t want to admit to. The ones that surprise us with their power. The ones that don’t get talked about enough.
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1. Anger: The Uninvited Guest
After Angé died, anger came in sudden bursts. I’d walk past a place we loved and feel my stomach clench. I’d see her handwriting on a sticky note and feel something break. I was angry at the doctors who couldn’t fix her. Angry at the cancer that hollowed her body. Angry at myself for not insisting on different treatments sooner.
I even got angry at her for not fighting harder — which I know is unfair. But grief is rarely calm or logical.
Anger often disguises itself — as frustration, irritability, sarcasm, or withdrawal. It might even show up as physical pain or tension. You snap at someone. You cry in rage. You say things you don’t mean. You feel like you’re exploding inside.
What to Do With It:
• Acknowledge it. Say it aloud: “I’m angry. And that’s okay.”
• Move with it. Go for a walk. Hit a pillow. Write it down. Let it burn through.
• Don’t judge it. Beneath anger is sadness, grief, love. Let it pass, and go gently toward what lies underneath.
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2. Guilt: The Endless “What Ifs”
Guilt was my shadow in those first months. I would replay the final weeks, searching for what I could have done differently. Should I have gotten her to the hospital sooner? Should I have argued harder with the doctor about pain management?
And then there’s the guilt I hate admitting — the small moment of relief that her pain was over. That I no longer had to watch her suffer. That guilt made me feel like a monster.
The truth is, you did what you could with the tools and knowledge you had at the time. You were tired. You were overwhelmed. You were loving the best way you knew how.
What to Do With It:
• Separate real responsibility from false guilt.
• Speak forgiveness to yourself: “I did my best. That is enough.”
• Write a letter to them. Say what you wish you’d said.
Sometimes, guilt is a way of trying to stay connected. There’s a gentler way to do that — through memories, rituals, and kindness — not self-punishment.
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3. Jealousy: The Silent, Shameful Emotion
I never thought I’d feel jealous while grieving Angé, but it hit me in strange moments. I’d see couples holding hands in a supermarket queue. I’d overhear friends planning holidays with their partners. And I’d ache — not because I wanted their life, but because I missed mine.
Once, I saw a woman absentmindedly straighten her partner’s collar while waiting at a café. It was such a small gesture, but it undid me. I thought of the way Angé would fix my shirt collar before we went out, sometimes joking about how I’d “never notice” if I walked out looking like I’d slept in my clothes. That one memory triggered a flood of longing.
Jealousy in grief is rarely about malice. It’s about being confronted — again and again — with what you can no longer have. It’s a reminder of the gap between what was and what is. But because it feels petty or small compared to the enormity of loss, you often keep it to yourself, letting it ferment into shame.
What to Do With It:
• Recognize jealousy as grief in disguise — it’s the voice of longing, not hatred.
• Speak it aloud in a safe space. Sometimes saying “I feel jealous” lifts its hold.
• Limit triggers when you need to — it’s okay to scroll less or avoid certain gatherings for a while.
• Create moments of connection and joy for yourself, no matter how small — a coffee in the sun, a walk in a place you love.
You’re not broken for noticing what you’ve lost. You’re human. And longing is part of love.
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4a. Bitterness: The Slow Poison
Bitterness came to me quietly. It didn’t slam the door — it seeped in like a slow leak. It grew in the quiet moments after the calls stopped, when the world carried on, and my loss was no longer headline news for anyone but me.
Bitterness says, Why me? Why her? Why now? It keeps replaying the unfairness of it all. It points at the happiness of others and whispers, They don’t deserve it as much as we did. It looks back at the past and says, We were robbed.
The danger of bitterness is that it makes a home in you. It hardens the edges of your heart. It turns what was once longing into cynicism, and it slowly starts to color everything in shades of grey.
If left untreated, bitterness doesn’t just sit quietly in the corner of your mind — it seeps into your body. It can keep you awake at night, raise your blood pressure, tighten your chest, drain your energy, and make even simple joys feel like work. Over time, it can rob you of both your mental clarity and your physical well-being.
What to Do With It:
• Name it early. The sooner you spot bitterness, the easier it is to soften.
• Find a place to pour it out — a journal, a trusted friend, therapy.
• Balance it with small acts of gratitude. Not to cancel out the bitterness, but to keep it from consuming you.
Bitterness is a natural reaction to deep injustice. But if you let it take root, it will keep you from stepping toward anything good again. And if you cling to it, it will destroy more than just your happiness — it will slowly destroy you.
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4b. Resentment: The Unpaid Debt
Resentment feels like someone owes you — an apology, a visit, a presence they promised but never gave. For me, it showed up when people who swore they would “always be there” simply vanished. Or when someone made a thoughtless remark that cut deep, and they never noticed.
Resentment thrives in the gap between what you needed and what you got. It builds a ledger in your mind, tallying every hurt, every absence, every broken promise. And in grief, that list gets long fast.
If you hold onto resentment too long, it won’t just live in your thoughts — it will live in your body. It fuels anxiety, triggers headaches, knots your stomach, and drains your immune system. It keeps you in a state of constant tension, always braced for the next disappointment. That stress eats away at your peace, your health, and even your relationships with people who didn’t cause the harm.
What to Do With It:
• Decide if the debt can realistically be repaid. If not, find ways to let go of collecting it.
• Communicate once if you can. Sometimes saying “That hurt me” is enough.
• Focus on relationships that give rather than drain.
Resentment is heavy to carry. And if you carry it too long, it will eventually carry you — into exhaustion, isolation, and even illness. Setting it down isn’t weakness. It’s survival.
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5. Shame and Self-Loathing: When Grief Turns Inward
I felt ashamed that I was still crying months later. Ashamed I couldn’t “function” the way I used to. Ashamed I forgot people’s birthdays, skipped social events, or snapped at friends who didn’t deserve it.
Grief has a cruel way of making you judge yourself for being human. It whispers lies like:
“You should be stronger by now.”
“You’re a burden.”
“You’re too much for people to handle.”
Sometimes, shame turns into self-loathing. You look in the mirror and see someone you don’t like — someone whose patience is thin, whose energy is gone, whose joy has been stripped bare. And because grief makes you more inward-facing, those thoughts loop endlessly.
The danger is that shame can stop you from reaching out for help, even when you need it most. You tell yourself you don’t deserve support. You start hiding the truth from those who care, and the isolation deepens.
What to Do With It:
• Challenge the shame stories: would you speak to a friend the way you speak to yourself?
• Keep a “truth list” — things people you trust have said about your worth, your kindness, your resilience. Read it when shame speaks loud.
• Allow yourself to be cared for without apology. You do not have to “earn” compassion.
• Speak honestly when someone asks how you’re doing — even if the answer is, “I’m not okay.”
You are still worthy. Still loved. Still needed — even in your lowest moments.
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6. Withdrawal: Not Just Numbness, But Self-Protection
After Angé’s death, I became quieter. I stopped going to certain places we’d gone together. I avoided some people because I couldn’t bear their pity or their attempts to cheer me up with empty phrases.
Withdrawal isn’t always about being numb — sometimes it’s the opposite. It’s feeling too much and not having the bandwidth to share it. You’re like a battery running on its last bar — every interaction costs energy, and you’re afraid of running out completely.
It can be protective in the short term. It gives you space to breathe, to rest, to avoid further wounding when you’re already raw. But if it stretches too long, it can start to reinforce loneliness, which in turn deepens sadness.
What to Do With It:
• Honor your need for quiet, but give yourself gentle deadlines to re-engage.
• Keep at least one line open — one friend or family member you reply to, even briefly.
• Reconnect in small doses: five minutes on the phone, a short coffee, a walk with someone who understands silence.
• Remember: it’s possible to protect yourself and still let a few people in.
Withdrawal is like closing the curtains in your home. Sometimes you need to block out the glare for a while — but if you never open them again, you’ll miss the light.
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7. The Physical Impacts of Hard Grief Emotions
Hard grief emotions don’t just live in your head — they take up residence in your body. And if they linger too long, they can become as damaging physically as they are emotionally.
• Anger keeps your body in a state of fight-or-flight. Your heart rate spikes. Your blood pressure rises. Muscles stay tense. Over time, this strain can lead to headaches, heart issues, and chronic tension.
• Guilt can make you clench your stomach or shoulders without realizing it, creating digestive issues, back pain, or jaw tension.
• Jealousy and resentment can keep you in a low-grade stress state, flooding your system with cortisol that wears down your immune system.
• Bitterness can disrupt sleep, making rest shallow or elusive, which impacts concentration and mood.
• Shame and withdrawal can sap your energy, making even small physical tasks — cooking, walking, showering — feel overwhelming.
In prolonged mourning, the physical effects can become serious: high blood pressure, ulcers, weight fluctuations, skin breakouts, inflammation, lowered immunity, and increased risk of illness.
What to Do:
• Notice physical symptoms as early warning signs — your body is speaking the emotions you may be avoiding.
• Pair emotional release with physical release: walk, stretch, garden, swim, or do light exercise.
• Prioritize rest. Sleep is not laziness in grief — it’s repair.
• Get a medical check-up. Tell your doctor you are grieving — it helps them understand your symptoms in context.
• Nourish your body even when appetite is low: small, balanced meals are better than skipping food entirely.
Your body carries grief just as much as your mind does. Treat both with patience and care.
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Conclusion: You Are Not Your Emotions
Hard grief emotions are not failure. They are evidence that you loved deeply. They are part of the landscape. They are visitors — not tenants.
Let them in. Let them teach you. And then, let them go.
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Reflective Prompts and Actions
1. What’s one grief emotion you’ve been afraid to name out loud? Write it down.
2. Write a letter to them telling them your hardest emotions. End with, “I loved you then. I love you still. I forgive us both.”
3. Make an “I Feel… But I Am…” list.
4. Tell one trusted person about one hard emotion you’re carrying.
5. Say aloud: “I allow myself to feel. I allow myself to mourn. I allow myself to live honestly.”
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I know now that grief is not just about sadness — it is an emotional orchestra with wild, unpredictable movements. She would have wanted me to feel it all — the joy, the rage, the longing, the silence — because feeling fully is living fully. So I no longer apologize for the anger or the jealousy or the withdrawal. I let them come and go, knowing that each emotion, no matter how hard, is a thread that still connects me to her.
