When Loss Lingers: A Journey Through Pain, Triggers, and Hope

There are seasons in life that leave you breathless
not from beauty, but from the weight of an ache you cannot name.
A phone call at midnight. An empty chair at the dinner table.
The slow fading of something you thought would last forever.

Loss has many names. It can come as death,
or as the ending of a love you thought was safe.
It can take the form of a job that once gave you purpose,
or the sudden rewriting of your days by illness or change.

Whatever its form, it does the same thing:
It rearranges your heart, your mind, and your faith.
And in the quiet after the storm, you are left asking,
“How do I keep living in a world that no longer looks the same?”

This is my journey through that question. Not to give you answers, but to walk with you toward the One who holds them.

The silence that follows loss is unlike any other, lingers quietly, pressing against our chest, asking to keep breathing while the world moves on, seemingly indifferent to our pain. When I lost my son, the world didn’t stop, but I did.

And loss is not always death. It can be the end of a relationship you thought would last forever, the sudden loss of a job that anchored your days, a diagnosis that changes the way you live, or any event that shatters the rhythm you once knew. Whatever its form, loss rewrites the script of our lives often without asking for permission.

Grief doesn’t just live in the heart; it seeps into the mind. It can cloud thoughts, drain energy, and make even the smallest daily task feel monumental. We often talk about the emotional ache, but rarely about the mental strain that comes alongside it.

This is not a story about “moving on.” It is about learning to live with loss mentally, emotionally, and spiritually and allowing God to write new chapters in the presence of pain.

Accepting That Loss Is Real: And Choosing Joy Over Grief

For me, acceptance of the loss came surprisingly quickly. I knew he was gone, and in my way, I surrendered that reality to God. But what prolonged my grief wasn’t the absence; it was navigating the expectations of others. People around me assumed I would or should grieve a certain way. They expected visible, prolonged sorrow. And when I didn’t respond the way they imagined, it was often misunderstood as denial or indifference.

At first, I genuinely found comfort in talking about him, sharing stories, and recalling moments, which helped me feel connected. But soon, I felt the quiet urge to return to the present rather than live anchored in the past. That shift was hard for others to understand. Some thought I was moving on too quickly. But I wasn’t forgetting I was learning to live.

Eventually, something beautiful happened. I started remembering him not with agony, but with gratitude. I discovered I could speak his name with warmth instead of ache. I began to share my sorrow not as pain, but as part of the joy of having loved and been loved.

Laughter returned, cautiously, but when it did, it reminded me that grief and joy are not opposites; they can sit side by side. Honouring his memory didn’t require endless sorrow. Joy, I learned, could be a sacred, honest form of remembrance.

In those tender moments, I clung to the truth that “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit”. I wasn’t alone. Even when the world misunderstood my grief, He did not.

Joy does not erase grief; it redeems it.

Adapting to How People See You

After a loss, people look at you differently. Some speak too quickly. Others disappear entirely. I used to be calm, patient. But grief changed that.

I noticed I was easily triggered, especially when people assumed they knew how I was feeling, yet never took the time to ask. The comments were casual, but the assumptions were sharp. And it hurt.

In trying to match their expectations, I almost lost sight of my healing. But then I remembered the quiet wisdom of Scripture: “But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you”. It became a daily question for me, Lord, how can I seek You in my choices today, even when I feel misunderstood?

When the world misreads your grief, let God be the One who truly sees you.

When Grief Becomes a Mental Battle

Loss, whether a beloved person, a marriage, a career, your health, or a way of life, doesn’t just leave a space; it quietly redefines every part of your day. Suddenly, simple tasks feel heavier. Fatigue may settle into your bones like an uninvited shadow. Thoughts blur as if you’re walking through a fog, unsure why you crossed the room where you stand.

Anxiety comes like tidal waves, unexpected, overwhelming. Nights feel endless, with sleep slipping away or engulfing you in hours of escape. Food, once meaningful, can feel tasteless in grief’s grip, or become the only solace you seek, even when it barely helps. You may pull away from loved ones, unable to find words. You could find yourself flaring over small irritations or haunted by regrets about things left unsaid.

In moments of stillness, a quiet, spiritual question hums beneath it all: Where do I go from here? What purpose remains when life as I knew it has shifted? Even faith can feel fragile. Yet, through the haze, there’s a glimmer, a memory, a breath, a prayer, that reminds you: pain and hope can coexist.

Recognising these experiences is not weakness; it is an act of self-awareness. They are gentle signals that your mind, just like your heart, is calling for care, rest, and compassion.

In that space of listening, healing can begin. Professional help, support groups, or trusted friends can offer comfort and perspective, but for me, faith became the anchor. It reminded me that both my mind and my spirit were seen, known, and tenderly cared for by God.

Your mind needs tending, just as your heart needs mending.

Identifying Emotional Triggers and Setting Boundaries

Some triggers were predictable certain songs, smells, or photos. But others surprised me. Like the time a loved one, struggling with their depression, said, “You don’t understand what I’m going through.”

That pierced deep. My grief didn’t look like theirs, so it was invalidated. In that moment, I realised not every voice deserves access to your most vulnerable spaces. Some people speak from their insecurity, not out of love.

So I began to guard my heart not in bitterness, but in wisdom. The reminder in Proverbs became an anchor: “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life”.

Protecting my peace wasn’t selfish; it was sacred.

Coping with Secondary Triggers and Consequences of Later Choices

Loss pushes us into decisions, some grounded in grace, others in raw survival. I made commitments that weren’t rooted in peace, but in the need to feel something other than emptiness.

These secondary wounds, the fallout of my own choices, brought fresh waves of grief. But I also learned to meet myself with compassion. I didn’t have to carry shame for decisions I made while simply trying to stay afloat.

In those moments, I held onto this promise: “For I will restore health to you, and your wounds I will heal, declares the Lord”.

Even the consequences of survival can be redeemed in the hands of a faithful God.

Finding Joy Again Even If the Path Looks Different

My healing didn’t look like a grand transformation. It looked like mornings with coffee and Scripture, workouts that strengthened my body when my spirit felt weak, and catching up with friends who loved me without judgment. It was navigating challenges at work, finding comfort in the simple beauty of rainbows and clouds, and sharing laughter with my family. It looked like smiling at memories instead of weeping through them. Joy became simpler, smaller, and far more meaningful.

I stopped needing others to understand my process. I simply wanted to be present with the joy God was quietly restoring in me.

In those quiet moments, I held tightly “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore”.

His presence didn’t erase the pain, but it filled the empty places with peace.

Anchoring My Mind and Heart in Faith

Faith didn’t remove the grief. It gave me something to hold onto within it.

My prayers became honest, even desperate at times: There were days I could only whisper, “Lord, I don’t want to go anywhere unless Your presence goes with me.” Other times, my heart wrestled with the question, “God, how can all things work together for good after this?” It didn’t always make sense, but I chose to believe it could still become something beautiful in time. And in the quietest moments, when I didn’t know how to take the next step, my prayer was simple: “Lord, I don’t know how to move forward, but help me trust You anyway.” Faith became less about answers and more about presence.

I didn’t need to understand everything. I just needed to know He was near.

Grief Doesn’t End, But It Transforms

Grief doesn’t disappear. It deepens, shifts, and matures. It becomes part of who we are, not just as a wound that never heals, but as a scar that speaks of love, endurance, and faith. And part of that transformation is recognising when our minds are hurting too, not just our hearts.

Loss, whether it’s the passing of a loved one, the collapse of a marriage, the loss of health, or a change that alters your daily life, can shake your mental and emotional foundations. Seeking help for that mental strain is not weakness, it’s wisdom.

If you’re walking through your valley of loss, please remember: you don’t have to rush healing. You don’t have to explain your journey. You only need to keep walking with the God who sees, knows, and walks with you.

Laughter will return. Even if it comes through tears.
And when it does, you will find it’s not a sign of forgetting,
But of healing body, mind, and soul.

For Reflection

• What have been your biggest triggers after loss?

• Have you felt misunderstood in your grief? How did you respond?