Moving Through Grief

Listen to this story:

In the warm afternoon sunbeams, I watch particles of dust dance and settle on my small ‘G’ guitar. Alone on its stand, the light glints off the worn strings, untouched since she left us. The thought of strumming and singing casts a dark shadow over me. Music now feels like a gaping hole. How could I sing when the person who cultivated that love is no longer here? Memories flood in, all the concerts, singalongs, and family jam nights with Mom always saying, “One more song!” I walk over to my guitar, a portal to those nights. 

I notice a folded piece of paper among a stack of documents we brought home from the hospital. I see her handwriting, familiar and welcoming. My heart nearly pounds out my chest. “Grace – Music is your connection to the world. Never give up and have joy.” Tears fill my eyes. If only I could use music as a catalyst for healing, redefining my connection to it.

I pick up the guitar, tracing my fingers along the fretboard. A different feeling, like coming back home after moving away. It isn’t joy just yet, but a step towards a new beginning. A beacon born from grief, to honour the music of Mom’s memory.

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I thought Mom was invincible, her life as limitless as the music she filled my world with.

Now, the world feels muted. A silence has taken over.  Mom, so I thought, was destined for a long and fulfilling life. She had an unwavering commitment to health — cooking nutritious meals and braving Winnipeg’s brutal winters commuting to work by bicycle. She had me later in life, which I took as another sign of longevity.  

I always imagined that one day she’d be an active, loving grandmother — but last summer, when I was 25 years old, death, with its cold grip, ripped her from my arms.

Mom was one-of-a-kind. To write “was” is still jarring for me, a surreal reminder that my mom, architect of my identity, is gone. 

As I grieve and try to navigate the world without her, I realize how much she shaped my identity. First in her life and now in her death. She is the one who nurtured my artistic side and first called me a musician. She saw me and sought out lessons for me in voice, theory, and musical theatre.

In grief we realize how much of our identity is shaped by those we’ve loved and lost. Mom’s a part of me in ways I’m only beginning to fully understand. It’s like discovering hidden rooms within myself, each one filled with her influence. The way I laugh, how I approach challenges, the books I’m drawn to are all woven together with threads of her being. 

A study by Cheryl-Anne Cait, a social work researcher at Wilfrid Laurier University, found that when someone loses a parent, their whole sense of who they are gets shaken up. Our identity isn’t built in a vacuum — it’s shaped by everything around us: our experiences, our relationships, the culture we grew up in, and the values that guide us. Cait points out that our sense of self is deeply tied to the people we love. 

Throughout Mom’s life, she worked for the betterment of society while taking care of her family. She was a group lead for Canada World Youth in Colombia and a gifted writer and editor. She spent the last eight and a half years of her career working in communications at the Alzheimer Society of Manitoba. Mom listened — truly listened — with patience and empathy. She had a way of making people feel valued — like their stories deserved to be heard. She was compassionate and generous, with an unwavering love for her family. Watching Mom listen with compassion taught me the importance of empathy. She modeled how to truly connect with others, and I strive to carry that same level of understanding and kindness into my own relationships.

Before: “Blues Run the Game“

I’ve always loved to sing. A few years ago, I had finally saved up enough to buy myself a professional microphone — the Aston Stealth Active Dynamic Microphone. One winter’s night in 2022, I eagerly set it up in the living room. I had the perfect set up for my first use: my family was away that night and the acoustic sound of the wood floors in the living room was magnificent. It was an ideal setting to get some vocal takes.  

I warmed up my voice and even lit some candles to set the mood. I sang my first take.

When I listened back, I heard a note that I could hit better. No worries. I went at it again. This time when I listened back, at a different spot in the song, I heard myself sing a note so flat it reminded me of a deflating balloon. 

C’mon Grace, what’s wrong with you? Take after take, note after note, the hours ticked. By the end, my vocal cords felt like a piece of dried-up leather. I walked off in a huff but stubbed my toe on the corner of the coffee table. Letting out a howl, I hobbled to a chair, collapsed, and cried. The air was suddenly heavy as intrusive doubts crept up like weeds out of a sidewalk crack. 

I collected myself as Mom waltzed through the door. Her eyes widened at my new microphone and her face lit up with excitement. With shame, I showed her my work. “Oh, Gracie! This is so fun! Let’s sing a duet!” With that, I realized I approached the whole thing wrong. I love singing. It doesn’t have to be this masterful, perfect thing. 

We sang “Blues Run the Game” by Jackson C. Frank and by the end, we split a gut laughing. The unexpected joy of that moment perfectly captured the essence of what music truly means: a shared experience, a connection beyond words.

After: Solace in Sleep

In the days following Mom’s death, sleep becomes my solace. A place where I can just be and not even know it. It’s a kingdom of nothingness that offers sanctuary from the horrible, endless ache of grief. I wonder where Mom is in these moments. Is she also in this place? Is she at peace? Though the refuge of sleep is a temporary fix, I welcome its numbing embrace time and time again.

My phone buzzes incessantly on my bedside table, jolting me out of a deep sleep. I groan and roll over. Multiple missed texts fill my screen. They are well-meaning but intrusive. I read the words “When will you have the funeral?” I imagine the tone portraying impatience. Anger floods in.

Mom wanted no part of the rigid structure and focus on death. She told us what she wanted, and I was thankful that we had time to talk to Mom about her wishes, when many others can’t.

She chose a Celebration of Life in her dear friend’s backyard with a gathering of her close friends and family. There would be food, laughter, music, stories, and some tears of course. Mom wanted something that was true to her spirit — not a somber funeral, but a beautiful farewell. 

That’s exactly what it was. I remember the golden warm sunlight falling through the trees as dusk fell. There were twinkling garden lights and candles in jars. The soft light shone on the faces of those Mom loved, as we reminisced about her infectious joy and love for life. There were people who sneered when they heard we were having a Celebration of Life and those who were outraged to find we wouldn’t be hosting an event with hundreds of people. No, you can’t bring your uncle Carl’s ex-girlfriend. The raised eyebrows and whispers started the moment we said, “no funeral home.” It was like we were breaking some unspoken rule.

People’s assumptions and demands stressed me out. They would make comments like “well, it was God’s plan,” imposing their religious beliefs. They would demand their presence at our gathering when that wasn’t what we wanted. For my family, this was a night to honour and remember Mom with the people closest to her.

The judgement surrounding our decision was an unwelcome presence as my brother Ian and I practised our songs for the Celebration of Life. We spent hours pouring our hearts into the songs we’d chosen. With each melody and chord, we could feel a whisper of her woven into the music. The rehearsals became sacred, intertwining two loves — music and Mom. Still, I felt consumed by grief. 

Grief can feel like a constant state of disenfranchisement — like you’re not allowed to grieve authentically because you’re constantly trying to reconcile your own experience with what everyone else says grief should be. A 2020 study in the Review of Communication Research described how disenfranchised grief can leave people feeling invalidated, unsupported, and pressured to confine their grief to solitude. This highlights how important validation is to one’s identity.

I’ve noticed these deeply ingrained societal expectations about mourning. People in my life prescribed the “right” way to grieve, often based on religion. According to Bereavement Care, grief is experienced and expressed differently across cultures and religions, affecting everything from how we acknowledge death to how long we mourn. 

When supporting someone in their grief, it’s important to focus on them and their individual experience within the social and religious context of their lives. This made me think about the expectations I felt when Mom died and how uncomfortable it was. Another study on bereavement examines how social expectations about grief, often shaped by cultural norms, can negatively affect those grieving, increasing their loneliness and making grief harder to navigate. 

Even though I searched for beauty in my experience, people regularly ticked me off. I felt a harsh sting in my throat every time I got unsolicited advice. It was as if everyone became an expert on grieving and knew how I should be feeling. I was adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. These flickers of anger surfaced, directed at no one specifically, but at the cruel injustice of losing Mom — the most remarkable person — too soon. There was also guilt, buried deep, for unkept promises and unspoken words. 

Grief is a constant suffocating shadow. A venomous snake gnawing away at my insides, its venom seeping deeper and deeper into my sorrow. I knew it would stay for the months and years that followed. 

Who am I now, without Mom? Almost a year after her death, this question still resonates with me. A perpetual sadness fills me, swallowing me as I imagine my future without her.  

Even small things like cooking dinner or listening to music feel empty.  

I feel disconnected from so much, especially myself. I’ve wondered if this feeling is a normal part of losing a loved one or if something else is going on.

I learned the term “complicated grief” from an article published in the Journal of Abnormal Psychology. Complicated grief is characterized by a wide range of symptoms including identity confusion, meaninglessness, and dysphoria.

After a loss, many people adjust to the change and grief subsides. However, about seven per cent of bereaved adults experience grief that is persistent and severe over time — this can be over the span of years. Complicated grief can also be identified as an intense yearning for the lost loved one, emotional pain, and preoccupation with thoughts of death. The idea that grief can last for years is something I’m now grappling with. Complicated grief causes more problems with daily life than post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or depression alone.

Losing Mom feels like a part of me is missing, and sometimes it does feel like no amount of time will ever heal that wound.

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Before: Times Changed

In 2023, I was invited to sing at the Times Changed High and Lonesome Club for a tribute concert in honour of the late legendary guitarist, Jeff Beck.

It was a late-notice gig with little time to prepare, but the songs were amazing. When I realized I was scheduled to work that night, doubts crept in. I seriously considered declining.  

While I’m sure a lot of parents would have told their child to “honour their work commitments,” Mom looked at me with a sparkle in her eye and said, “Grace, you have to do this.” The certainty in her words struck me.

I changed my work shift, and started practising. I wanted to nail the songs. Standing on stage with a band backing me and the vibrant energy of the crowd was exhilarating. I looked down and there she was — Mom, beaming with delight. It was a night to remember.

Since Mom died, grief has been ever-present. I don’t think it will disappear, but grief shifts and evolves with us. Death doula, Rayne Foy-Vachon, talked to me about the importance of holding space for people so they can begin to explore who they are in the absence of who they lost.

This exploration is crucial for rebuilding a sense of identity after loss. It’s about finding new ways to connect with the memories of those we’ve lost and integrate their absence into our lives.  

Foy-Vachon says this might mean creating a grief playlist of favourite songs you shared, a tangible reminder of your connection. Legacy projects, like planting a memorial tree or creating a garden, can provide a living tribute, allowing you to nurture something in their name. Expressing grief through a memorial tattoo becomes a permanent, physical reminder of love and loss. These actions offer a pathway to healing, helping us redefine our identities in the wake of grief.

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During: Indigo and Lavender Blues

The fluorescent hospital lights glared harshly down onto Mom. They accentuated her pale, gaunt face as she lay in the hospital bed with wires, bags, and tubes snaking around her. 

The sterile white box of a room reeked of disinfectant and decay. We had heard the news. Cancer. Time was slipping away. Dad, Ian, my Aunt Janet, and I took shifts to stay with Mom so she would never be alone. 

Right outside her hospital room was an electric cabinet filled to the brim with heated blankets. A sign on the door read “do not open,” but I opened it. The cozy, warm blanket soon covered Mom. I wanted her to feel comforted and enveloped in love.  

Her pained expression softened, and her warm smile eased onto her face.  

I knew that my rule breaking was worth it. She fell into a deep sleep. She usually woke up when the nurses would come and go, but this time, she slept.

As she slept, I set up my easel in the room — a gift from Mom. When I first started to paint, she would point out the delicate petals of a flower or the crimson hues of a sunset. “Gracie! You should paint that!” She ignited a fire of creativity in me. The silence is deafening now. In her hospital room, I realized she wouldn’t be there to see any new paintings. She wouldn’t be there to see a lot of things.

Just then, the most beautiful sunset I’d ever seen took hold of the sky. I quickly went to brush its soft indigo and lavender blues across the canvas, wanting to capture the fleeting moment. I will always paint in honour of Mom; she was the woman who gave me my art.

Grief isn’t simply about losing someone; it’s a deep confrontation with our own changing selves. It forces us to acknowledge our mortality and the inherent fragility of our identity. As Joan Didion said in her book The Year of Magical Thinking, “When we mourn our losses, we also mourn…ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer.” Grief brings about an irreversible change in those who experience it, reshaping our understanding of the world and of ourselves. 

Since Mom died, my priorities have shifted — little worries fade, and I cherish connections more deeply. Grief has stripped away the superficial, revealing what truly matters: love, connection, and the preciousness of time.

A few months after her passing, I received a letter from CancerCare Manitoba saying that so many people have donated in Mom’s honour that they are engraving her name on a plaque and having a ceremonial unveiling.

I am still learning to live with the paradox of overwhelming sorrow and gratitude. I know it hurts so bad because she was deeply loved and loved so deeply in return. In moments when I feel most lost, this poem reminds me that Mom is still with me, a part of who I am: 

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
Do not think of me as gone, I am with you still in each new dawn.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

And so, I find solace in the winds and stars, knowing her love, like the dawn, is evergreen. It is in this bitter truth I understand the depth of her presence, a love that echoes in every breath.