Duality of Grief

If you've navigated loss or grief, you understand its rhythm—it moves like the ocean. One moment, there is perfect, absolute calm. The next, you are caught in a chaotic storm, struggling simply to gasp for air between the relentless, crashing waves.

Recently, the weather has turned against me. I've found myself increasingly overwhelmed, forced to retreat and search for calmer waters hoping the storm passes. I experienced a similar pattern around this time last year as well so it would be logical to simply see this as a symptom of the holidays approaching and a reminder that we will be creating new memories without the ones we miss so deeply. For me though, I’ve been exploring my own feelings at a deeper level and our grief counsellor from Canuck Place recently shared the perfect line to describe how I’ve been feeling: Duality of Grief.

Duality of Grief

If you don’t mind, I’ll circle back to the first lines from this post. Grief moves like the ocean. Calm in one moment and chaotic in another. That’s the duality I have been feeling and I will share below how I’ve been experiencing this.

I love seeing photos and videos of Sofia. I’m obsessed if I’m being honest. I have a favourite picture of her as my iPhone wallpaper so she’s the first thing I see when I look at my phone. If I swipe one page to the left, I have a widget that features a new photo every hour from my Sofia album. On my watch, I have that same rotating slide show of photos. Everywhere I look, I see Sofia. And when I’m craving a bit more, I’ll find my way to a few of my favourite videos so I can see that beautiful smile, hear that infectious laugh, witness that mischievous look in her eyes or even the ferocity she showed when things weren’t going her way. Every photo and every video immediately brings a huge smile to my face. That smile is, heartbreakingly, often brief, quickly yielding to a raw surge of anger followed by a sadness I can only describe as painfully heavy.

As many will know, I’ve become a believer that the ones we’ve lost are able to send us signs. In a blog post from this time last year, I wrote about how I made a very specific request to Sofia and nearly immediately had that request granted. I see signs nearly every day. From little things that only I could recognize to the most obvious and pronounced as if she’s screaming at us all to pay attention. Every single sign, big or small, offers a profound wave of joy and solace. I notice them, smile, and whisper a thank you to Sofia. But this comfort is painfully bittersweet. The same evidence that sustains my journey through grief also sharpens the agony: If she is near enough to send these beautiful signs, why is she still too far to return?

Though Carter is only nine, I hope he will one day fully grasp the depth of his impact on my grief journey. It may seem counterintuitive, as most assume a young child relies on the adult, but Carter is the one who keeps me grounded. He gently prevents me from sinking too low and infuses my life with a unique joy that no one else can provide. He offers immense hope and constantly gives me reason to persevere through the darkest moments. Reflecting on Carter's strength and inspiration inevitably pivots my thoughts to his own devastating loss. He adored being Sofia’s big brother, and their relationship was truly beautiful. As I navigate my own grief, nothing is more agonizing than knowing Carter lost so much, and lost it so soon.

This, naturally, brings me to another powerful reason for hope and optimism: our baby boy, due in mid-January. I am incredibly excited to welcome a new child into our home, and deeply grateful for this opportunity later in life. While that anticipation is immense, it often finds itself locked in a losing battle with my anxiety, as each new pregnancy milestone also carries with it a painful reminder of what we have lost.

Ultimately, I know my experience isn't unique. I suspect that most who suffer such profound loss will oscillate between feelings of deep gratitude and crushing sadness.

This is partly why I felt compelled to write this—to reach those who feel isolated in their grief, and to offer insight to those struggling to support a loved one. Recognize that every single smile on our faces is a profound act of defiance that had to battle overwhelming odds just to shine through. That very perseverance, the stubborn ability to carve out joy from the heart of pain, is what offers me hope. I know more storms are coming, but I have a multitude of reasons to keep fighting through them.

This picture represents perfectly the duality of my grief. It was taken Christmas Day of 2023. You wouldn’t think spending Christmas at the hospital could represent a fond memory, but for me it does. When I see this photo, it instantly brings a smile to my face. One of the best days I’ve ever had. And then, of course, I’m reminded this was our last Christmas with Sofia.