Hidden Aspects of Grief

Loss of an Anchor

There are times in life when we recognise that someone, or something, has held us in place in profoundly good ways without us even knowing it. This uniquely important role may be held by a person, or by a relationship with a significant place, a pet, a home, or by a rhythm of living. Over time, it’s given shape to our days and a reassuring weight and rootedness to our own presence in the world.

We may not have named it while it was there. We may not even have been aware of it. And yet, it was holding us, locating us and providing us with a place from which to live.

When such an anchor-hold disappears from our life permanently, our grief reflects this in and through the experience of feeling unmoored, no longer connected to the mainland of life, and so no longer held by it in the same way.

How important is our sense of belonging to people, to place, to the animals in our life, to the rhythms and patterns in our life! This sense forms over time through being known, being recognised, and through the quiet continuity of relationship. It lives in the small, repeated moments of life: being greeted, being expected, being remembered, doing the same or similar things day by day.

These things may seem ordinary, even insignificant, but together they form something essential. They tell us, again and again, that we live, here, that we are part of something, that we belong.

Mostly, it’s those we love, and who love us, who anchor us into the world. They reflect us back to ourselves and hold a place for us, sometimes without saying very much at all. We feel seen and heard. This, by contrast with how we can feel as we grieve: invisible.

Being unmoored, untethered, manifests in various ways. We may wonder whether to remain where we are. Do we stay in the same home, or do we move, perhaps somewhere smaller, or closer to family? These are understandable questions which aren’t only about our home, where we feel at home. They’re also questions of identity, belonging, and of place.

The home itself may have been part of the shared life, part of the “we” that has now been lost. To move at such a time can be to undergo a second unmooring, not only the loss of the loved one, but the loss of the place in which that life was lived. Remaining there may also carry its own weight and sense of absence.

In the early months after loss, it can also feel as though the ground beneath our feet is unstable. Our sense of self, belonging, and orientation in the world shifts and unsettles. Decisions made from within this state may not reflect where we’ll eventually come to rest. Allowing time, as long or longer than a calendar year, can be important as some inner steadiness begins to return. The question isn’t simple, and it’s important not to rush into finding a neat answer.

Dissociation

Sometimes, there is something more subtle to name. I describe this as a thinning. In the early days and weeks after a major loss, this may be a natural part of the emotional, psychological and physical shock following upon a major loss. We may feel as though we’re looking at ourselves from the outside, watching our life unfold rather than fully inhabiting it. Our sense of being here diminishes as we feel less embodied and less grounded.

While this experience can be deeply unsettling, it’s a recognised response to major loss; a way in which the mind protects itself when we’re far from being able to take in the brutal reality that has entered our life. Something in us steps back. To step into the brutal reality fully would be far too much to bear. While the technical, clinical term for this is dissociation, most of us will experience it in various forms throughout our lives, particularly during times of immense stress and distress.

Feeling Invisible

When grief unmoors us, our sense of self disperses. We’re no longer able to recognise ourselves. The person who helped us do this, a significant loved one, or a long -term role in employment, for example, is no longer present. A “we” becomes an “I”, and that immense change isn’t just about a grammatical alteration but a change in being. The shared life, identity, and rhythms are interrupted, and what remains hidden from us.

This change is both internal – our sense of who we are – and external. It affects all our relationships. Those around us may not know how to meet us in our changed state. This isn’t because they have no heart but because the familiar ways of relating no longer fit and they’ve no fluency in it. Conversations may become hesitant. Invitations may fall away or be offered with uncertainty.

Often, and unintentionally, the bereaved person becomes less visible to those around them. Many grieving people speak of feeling unseen, unheard, or quietly set aside, mostly due to great uncertainty in others, a not knowing how to relate to them now in their new dispensation. The person is still there, and yet something about their demeanour is radically changed.

I Don’t Want to be Here Anymore

Then there’s the feeling, common to many grieving people, which is when we say, “I don’t want to be here anymore”. This feeling may creep up on us in the weeks immediately following the major loss. Having such thoughts and feelings may trouble us. However, generally, it’s not a wish to die. It’s more of a guttural response to the awfulness of what has occurred in our life.

When this thought, this feeling, arises: “I don’t want to be here anymore; I want to be with…,” it may be an expression of feeling unable to recognise or relate to the vastly altered life that is ours now. However, we must always take this phrase seriously, ask questions and find out what the person means, how they’re really feeling and how we might help them.

The Skill of Moving Between and Within Worlds

There’s something in this experience that echoes the strange, disorienting world of Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking-Glass, where Alice tumbles into a world that feels unfamiliar and difficult to understand. Grief can feel like this: as though we have been dropped into a parallel world we don’t recognise and yet are somehow expected to continue living.

We move between that world and the ordinary world of others, often for longer than we expect. We move between the two dimensions, never quite fully belonging in either. No wonder it can feel confusing and disorientating. It can feel very conflicted. Yet, slowly, over time, we begin to adjust to the changes which major loss has brought into our life. We become more familiar with this altered way of being, and gradually, aspects of our former self find their place alongside our new loss-shaped self.

So too, the metaphorical ground beneath our feet may feel firm and steady once more, reflecting our own deeper awareness and new-found stability. We may feel seen and heard once more, not only by others, but also, importantly, by ourselves.
The sense of being overlooked by others may soften, too: some relationships may deepen, others may have become collateral damage, while new, perhaps surprising ones grow.

As we learn to live with grief, so we’ll continue to move between the underworld of grief and ordinary life, becoming more sure-footed in the ability to live in both worlds at the same time.