Grieving Gramma: The Unexpected Weight of Saying Goodbye

You’d think I’d be prepared.

Gramma was 90. Ninety. She had lived a full, beautiful life, raised generations of stubborn, independent, loving people, and had been asking God to take her home for years. She was ready. She had told us, over and over, that she had made peace with leaving.

And yet, when she finally passed, the grief hit in ways I didn’t expect.

I miss her in the big, obvious ways….holidays, birthdays, the family gatherings where her presence was as familiar as the smell of something baking in the oven. But I also miss her in the tiny, unremarkable ways.

The way she sat in her tiny room, TV playing a show she didn’t understand but still insisted on watching. The way she’d ask the same question three times in a row, convinced she hadn’t just asked it two minutes earlier. And her Zippity Doo Dah. Always Zippity Doo Dah—hummed, sung, or whistled under her breath, like the background music of our lives.

You brace yourself for grief in the big moments. You don’t expect it to creep up in the silence where she used to be.

Grief Isn’t Logical

Logically, I know she’s at peace. Logically, I know she lived a full life. Logically, I should be grateful I had her for 40 years.

But grief doesn’t give a damn about logic.

It doesn’t care that she was ready. It doesn’t care that we saw it coming. It just shows up, pulling at the empty spaces where she used to be, reminding me that her absence is something I’ll always have to adjust to.

Because grief isn’t about reason; it’s about love. And love doesn’t just disappear because someone was ready to go.

The Diversity of Grief

Everyone grieves differently. Some cry. Some throw themselves into distraction. Some sit in the quiet and let it wash over them, wave after wave.

And yet, people love to put grief in a neat little box.

"At least she lived a long life.""At least you got to say goodbye.""At least she wasn’t suffering."

Yes. And also, no. Because while all of those things are true, none of them make the ache disappear. None of them make me miss her less.

Grief doesn’t come with an age limit. It doesn’t care how much time you had with someone. Losing them still hurts.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. People can sit and judge all they want, wonder if you’re grieving too much or not enough, if you should be over it by now or if you’re making it a bigger deal than it is. Let them. Their opinions don’t change the fact that this is yours. Your loss. Your pain. Your process. You’re allowed to feel it however it comes, for as long as it takes. You don’t owe anyone a performance of grief that makes them comfortable. You just owe yourself the space to be human.

Giving Grace to Ourselves and Others

The thing about grief is that it sneaks up when you least expect it. One minute, you’re fine. The next, you hear a song, smell a certain perfume, or pass by the peppermint patties she loved, and suddenly, your heart clenches in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

That’s why we need to give ourselves grace.

To grieve however we need to. For however long we need to. Without guilt. Without comparison.

And to extend that same grace to others.

Because grief isn’t a competition. No one should have to justify their pain just because someone else has it worse.

A Message of Hope and Connection

If you’ve ever lost someone, you know, grief doesn’t just fade away. It shifts, it evolves, it becomes something you carry differently over time.

But what helps? People who get it. People who don’t try to fix it, minimize it, or wrap it up with a neat little at least. People who just sit in it with you.

Maybe that’s what we can all do better—hold space for each other. Instead of rushing to find the silver lining, maybe we just say, I’m here. I know this is hard. And I miss them with you.

Holding Space for Grief

If you’ve lost someone you love, I hope you’re granted the space to grieve, free of judgment or comparison. Because grief, no matter the circumstances, deserves to be honored.

And if you need someone to just sit in the loss with you, know that I’m here, humming Zippity Doo Dah under my breath and thinking of all the ways love lingers, long after someone is gone.