When I was 14, I thought grief only meant funerals. Only meant losing someone you loved. But my world had already taught me differently. By then, I had lost my parents, my brother, and even my mother’s favorite tree — a place that was once my sanctuary.
At that age, most kids are trying to figure out who they are. I was trying to survive sleepless nights haunted by memories I couldn’t escape. I learned to silence my grief because it made others uncomfortable. I learned that grief doesn’t only come when someone dies — it shows up in silence, in the body, in culture, in land, in animals, in digital spaces.
Through my own journey, my work as an advocate, and my background in psychology, I’ve come to see that grief has many faces. Here are seven we rarely talk about — and why they matter.
🌑 Disenfranchised Grief — The Grief No One Validates
When I was told to “be strong,” my tears were silenced before they even fell. That silence became shame. Psychologists call this disenfranchised grief — grief that society doesn’t acknowledge. It often happens when losses don’t fit into the “acceptable” script: losing a job, a home, a pet, or even a sense of safety. People say, “It’s just a ___” as though categories decide how deeply we should hurt. But the body doesn’t measure loss by social rules. It registers heartbreak, no matter the source.
I know what it feels like to be unseen in grief, to feel invisible even while drowning. And the truth is, living with that silence is its own horror — carrying pain that no one names. If this is you, please know: your grief doesn’t need permission to exist.
🌫 Ambiguous Loss — Grief Without Closure
As a trafficking advocate in Africa and Asia, I met mothers who never saw their daughters come home. Brothers who searched endlessly for siblings they may never find. Their grief wasn’t marked by funerals, but by waiting. Psychology calls this ambiguous loss — when the story has no ending. Our brains crave resolution, and when we don’t get it, the nervous system stays on high alert. That’s why ambiguous loss is so exhausting: your body doesn’t know how to rest when it doesn’t know if goodbye has already happened.
I think often of those families — how hope and despair lived in them at the same time. And though my story looks different, I know that ache of unfinished grief. If you’re carrying unanswered questions, your weariness makes sense.
👶 Childhood Grief — Hidden, Silenced, Misunderstood
I was 11 when I lost both parents. People told me to be strong, so I stayed quiet. Later, I recognized that same silence in children I met around the world — grief showing up in stomach aches, sleepless nights, or behavior that adults dismissed as “acting out.” Psychology shows us that children often “re-grieve” the same loss as they grow older, each time with new understanding. Without support, they absorb dangerous beliefs: “I’m too much” or “I don’t matter.”
I know what it’s like to be that child. To feel heavy with sorrow no one wants to name. To be told strength means silence. If you were ever that child too, you deserved tenderness then — and you still do now.
🌍 Eco-Grief — The Loss of Earth, Place, and Belonging
After my mother died, her favorite tree became my refuge. I sat under its shade, prayed, and felt close to her spirit there. When the government cut it down for construction, it felt like my last piece of peace was stolen. That tree wasn’t just bark and leaves — it was memory, tradition, and identity.
Psychologists now name this eco-grief — the sorrow tied to environmental loss. For Indigenous and rural communities, losing land or water isn’t just ecological, it’s cultural and generational. It severs belonging. For me, that tree’s fall became a symbol: everything you love will eventually leave. That belief lived in my nervous system for years, shaping how I trusted, how I loved, how I dreamed.
If you’ve ever mourned a place, know that your grief is real. Homes, rivers, forests — they hold pieces of us. And grieving them is an act of honoring where you come from.
🌐 Collective Grief — The Weight We Carry Together
I grew up during the Hutu and Tutsi war. Death was everywhere — in homes, on streets, in whispers I wasn’t supposed to ask about. That grief wasn’t just mine. It was ours.
Today, I see echoes of that same collective grief across the globe: pandemic losses, racial injustice, wars, the erasure of entire communities. Psychology calls this collective grief — loss carried by groups, nations, or cultures. It can be unbearable, but it also connects us. Research shows mourning together regulates the nervous system and fosters resilience.
I carry my community’s grief still, and I know many of you carry yours. The heaviness is proof of our humanity. We are not meant to bear it alone.
🐾 Pet Loss — Love Beyond Species
I never had pets growing up. In my African culture, animals weren’t kept as companions the way they are in many other parts of the world. But 9 years ago, in Taiwan, I stayed with a family grieving their beloved pet. Their daughter and parents were in tears. At the time, I didn’t know how to empathize — I didn’t understand that bond.
Over the years, through friends, clients, and family, I’ve witnessed how profound this grief can be. Psychology affirms it: pets often serve as attachment figures, offering unconditional love and daily rhythm. When they’re gone, the nervous system reacts with the same distress as human loss. But because society dismisses it — “It was just a dog” — mourners are often left to carry it in silence.
I may not have lived it myself, but I’ve learned enough to know this: pet loss is sacred grief. Love is love. Bond is bond. And no one should be shamed for mourning family, no matter its form.
💻 Digital Grief — Mourning in Online Spaces
When my grief felt too heavy to carry in real life, online spaces gave me something I didn’t have anywhere else: permission to speak. Across the world, I’ve seen people posting names, lighting digital candles, or writing stories to remember loved ones.
This is called digital grief — a modern form of mourning. For some, it brings connection. For others, judgment. Psychology tells us expression is key to nervous system regulation, and online sharing is one way many are finding that outlet. But there’s fragility here too: when access is taken away, when accounts vanish, or when exclusion silences us again, it reopens the wound.
I know the fear of being silenced all too well. That’s why I believe even digital mourning deserves respect. Because at its heart, it’s about something universal: the human need to be witnessed.
🌿 Closing Reflection
Grief doesn’t live only in funerals. It shows up in silence, in unanswered questions, in children’s bodies, in the land, in collective cries, in the bonds with pets, and in the digital spaces where we write our pain. And the truth is — these are only some of the faces of grief. There are countless others.
What I’ve learned through my story, my studies in psychology, and my work across cultures is this: grief is vast. It wears many masks. Some of them are visible, the kind people expect — like death, funerals, and memorials. But so many forms of grief remain hidden or dismissed. The grief of losing safety. The grief of losing language. The grief of losing a future you dreamed of but never lived. These losses often have no rituals, no casseroles at the door, no words of comfort. And yet, they are heavy. They shape our bodies, our relationships, our sense of belonging in the world.
The most important thing we can do for ourselves — and for one another — is to recognize all grief as real. To stop ranking losses by category and start listening to the ache inside the human heart. When we do, we create space for dignity. We create space for connection. We give ourselves permission to say: Yes, my pain matters. Yes, your pain matters too.
Respecting grief means honoring both our own story and the stories of others, even when they look different. Your grief might not be mine, but that does not make it less sacred. And my grief might not be yours, but it deserves to breathe. In a world that so often silences sorrow, the radical act is to bear witness — to ourselves and to each other.
So, if you take one thing from this reflection, let it be this: every grief deserves recognition. Every griever deserves compassion. Whether it’s named here or not, your loss belongs. Your story is part of a much larger tapestry of human survival and resilience.
This blog is only the beginning. There are still so many faces of grief left to uncover. On October 23rd, I’ll be sharing my next piece — one that explores the pain of grieving loved ones who are still alive. This is a grief many of us carry quietly: estranged relationships, family members who can’t love us the way we need, friends or partners who are here physically but gone emotionally. I’ll share pieces of my own story, as well as the stories of others I’ve met who live with this kind of silent heartbreak.
Until then, may you remember this: you are not broken for grieving. You are not weak for feeling. And you are not alone in carrying what the world too often refuses to name.
Together, we can grieve out loud — with compassion, with courage, and with deep respect for every loss, seen and unseen.
✨ This blog is part of my Memoir + Movement series. Stay tuned for Memoir Two in two Fridays.
With love,
Epiphany
