Mahdi Ahmed

Grief is a strange companion. It doesn’t knock politely before entering. It doesn’t leave when we ask it to. And it doesn’t speak when we beg for answers. Instead, it lingers — quietly and stubbornly — in the corners of our days. It shows up in the silence of mornings, in the middle of conversations, or in the way the light falls on an empty chair.

Today, I had a deeply emotional conversation with a good friend whose parent passed away recently. As he shared his sorrow, I felt his pain echo within me, pulling me back to my own loss — the day I said goodbye to my father three years ago. Different stories, different people, yet grief spoke in the same language. It made me realize that while no two losses are identical, the emptiness they leave behind often feels hauntingly familiar.

When we lose a parent, the world shifts beneath our feet. A piece of the foundation we have always relied on is suddenly gone. No matter how old we are, or how strong we believe ourselves to be, their absence leaves us feeling strangely small. Yet even in those moments, grief doesn’t feel like the end of something — it feels like a reminder of what continues to guide us, even in absence.

And here lies the deeper truth about grief: it is not something that truly heals. We often hear people say that time heals everything. But grief isn’t a wound that closes; it’s a scar that becomes part of us. It doesn’t shrink with time — instead, we grow around it. We learn to carry it.

Within that truth is something almost comforting: grief exists only because love existed. If the pain feels endless, it is because the love was vast. To grieve deeply is to have loved deeply. And so, grief becomes both our burden and our proof.

What I’ve come to realize is that grieving is not about staying in sorrow. It’s about remembering. It’s about keeping alive the laughter, the lessons, the stubbornness, the kindness, the everyday things that made them who they were. When we live by what they gave us, they remain here — woven into the fabric of our days.

So maybe grief is not a thief after all. Maybe it is a guardian. It guards the love we had, reminding us that though time moves forward, bonds are eternal.

To my friend — and to anyone walking through this shadow — I say: let grief sit with you. Don’t rush it away. Let it teach you, shape you, and even soften you. One day, it will stop feeling like a storm and start feeling like a quiet sea. The waves will still come, but you’ll learn to float.

And perhaps, with time, grief transforms. It begins as sorrow, sharp and unbearable. But slowly, it becomes gratitude — gratitude for having had someone to miss so deeply. Gratitude that their love was strong enough to outlast even their presence.

Because grief is not the end of love. It is love’s echo — and if we listen closely, that echo can guide us forward, gently, into the light.