Grief has a way of changing shape over time.
At first, it feels sharp and immediate—like something you can point to, something you can name. However, as the years pass, it becomes quieter, more woven into who you are. It doesn’t leave. Instead, it settles in beside you.
That’s something I’ve come to understand in my own life after losing my only brother to suicide.
We were seven years apart, and like many siblings with that kind of age gap, our worlds didn’t always overlap when we were younger. Still, I remember wanting to be part of his world, even when I didn’t quite fit into it yet.
Over time, though, that changed. We grew closer. We found connection in new ways. And even after he was gone, that connection didn’t disappear,it just changed.
Grief does that, it doesn’t end, it evolves.
Watching Grief Through Someone Else’s Eyes
While I carry my own grief as a sister, I also witnessed something else that shaped me just as deeply.
I watched my parents lose a child, and that is something I will never fully understand.
There is a difference between grieving a sibling and grieving a child. Although I can stand beside my parents in their pain, I cannot step inside of it. Their grief exists on a level that feels almost impossible to comprehend.
However, witnessing it changed me, it taught me that grief is not a shared experience, even within the same family. Each person carries it differently, each person processes it in their own way. And perhaps most importantly, there is no “right” way to grieve.
That understanding stayed with me, and then, years later, it resurfaced in a way I didn’t expect.
When Grief Comes Back
In my recent conversation with John Dedakis, I heard something that felt deeply familiar, even though our stories are different. John lost his sister decades ago, then, years later, he lost his son.
And what struck me most wasn’t just the loss itself—it was how grief returned, not as the same experience, but as something entirely new.
Because grief isn’t something you go through once and move on from. Instead, it revisits you. It meets you at different stages of your life. And each time, it asks something new of you, listening to John, I realized something important:
You can’t compare grief.
You can only honor it.
Grief and Storytelling
This is where John and I connected in a way I didn’t expect.
We both turned to storytelling.
John, as a journalist and fiction writer, learned how to tell stories grounded in truth. I, as a podcast host, creating space for people to share the stories they’ve lived.
Different paths, same purpose, because storytelling does something powerful in the face of grief. It gives shape to what feels shapeless. It creates connection where there might otherwise be isolation. And most importantly, it reminds us that we are not alone.
When we tell our stories, or even when we hear someone else’s, we begin to understand that what we’re carrying isn’t ours alone. There are others walking alongside us, even if we’ve never met them.
That realization is where healing begins.
There Is No One Way to Grieve
One of the most important takeaways from John’s story is this:
Grief doesn’t follow a formula, it doesn’t move in straight lines., it doesn’t resolve neatly, and it certainly doesn’t look the same from one person to the next.
For me, grief looks like remembering my brother in quiet moments, for my parents, it looks entirely different. For John, it became something he processed through writing, through teaching, and through continuing to search for meaning.
And all of those ways are valid.
Finding Hope Along the Way
Hope, in this context, doesn’t mean everything is okay. It doesn’t mean the pain goes away. Instead, hope is something quieter.
It’s the willingness to keep going, to keep connecting, to keep telling the story—even when it’s hard. That’s what I saw in John, and if I’m being honest, it’s what I’ve come to recognize in myself too.
Final Reflection
Grief is not something we move past, it’s something we learn to carry. And storytelling—whether we’re telling our own story or listening to someone else’s—becomes one of the ways we make sense of it. It helps us find meaning, helps us feel less alone, and sometimes, it even helps us find hope.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
There is no right way to grieve.
There is only your way.
And that… is enough.
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