#48 Same loss, Different grief

The forces that shape how we love, face loss, and keep going

Nov 20, 2025

Have you ever wondered why no two people grieve the same way?

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Yesterday was Dad’s birthday. He would’ve been sixty-seven, which still stops me in my tracks. Every year, these dates creep up: his birthday, the anniversary, Diwali, Father’s Day. They all carry the same question — what should we do this year?

Someone will send a message in the family group chat: “Should we do anything tomorrow?” My mind is already ticking. I’ve been thinking about it for days in the lead up. How can we make it different this time? Bigger, better, more special somehow?

Mum might reply: “Let’s just keep it quiet. I’ll light a candle at home. You kids come over for dinner.”

I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. We’ll have nachos and $1 coffee from 7-Eleven again — our odd little ritual. The one that somehow stuck. And I’ll wonder, as I always do, is that it?

It never feels like enough. I want to talk about him, share stories, post photos, maybe even throw a gathering to remind people he existed — that he mattered then and still does. That’s how I process. Through words, stories, and community. It’s how I stay connected to him.

But I know that’s not how everyone grieves. My mum and sister carry their grief inward. They prefer to remember him in their own way, privately, quietly. For them, as for me, grief is deeply personal — something sacred, tender, and on their own terms.

For a long time, I thought these differences meant we weren’t aligned — that we weren’t honouring Dad in the same way. But over time, I’ve realised something that feels both simple and profound: even when we lose the same person, we don’t grieve the same loss.

If you’re new here, welcome to Grieve Fully, Live Fully — a space for honest, heartfelt reflections on grief, growth, and the messy, beautiful middle of being human. Whether you’re navigating loss, facing life’s uncertainties and challenges, or simply seeking a little hope, you’re not alone.

I’m Ruhie — writer, doctor, mum & grief advocate. I don’t have it all figured out, and you don’t need to either. Let’s walk this path together with honesty, intention, and compassion.

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The roots of our grief

Grief can look shared from the outside — a family mourning the same person — but inside it, the experience is deeply individual. Each of us carries a different version of the person who’s gone, shaped by our own memories, routines, and connection.

I lost my anchor — the person I leaned on for grounding, strength, and positivity. Mum lost her life partner, her daily rhythm, her constant. My sister lost the steady presence and quiet reassurance of someone who had once been her safe space. The same man, but different relationships, different histories, different forms of love.

That’s one of the biggest influences on how we grieve: who the person was to us — not just the label like “father” or “brother” or “friend”, but the nature of the relationship itself.

How they died matters too. Dad’s illness lasted three years — long to some, short to us, either way, devastatingly brutal. Watching someone you love decline like that changes you. We lived through the painful unravelling, the helplessness, the daily losses, both big and small, before the final one. For some, that makes the end gentler, in a way, because you’ve had time to prepare. For others, it deepens the exhaustion, the trauma, the grief that started long before death itself. When the death is sudden or violent, there’s no warning or time for reckoning. The shock, disbelief, and unanswered questions is its own kind of trauma, leaving scars that run deep and take a long time to heal.

Then there’s who we are as people — our personality, coping style, and attachment patterns. Some people naturally turn inward; others reach out. Some find comfort in talking, others in keeping busy, praying, running, making art, or finding routine. None of these are better or worse. They’re all just different ways of coping with the unthinkable.

And those patterns aren’t random. They come from somewhere.

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The stories we inherit

Most of us learn what grief looks like long before we ever experience it ourselves. We absorb it in childhood — from parents, grandparents, the adults around us — noticing who cries, who stays composed, who keeps busy, who goes quiet. The stoicism of one generation, the openness of another. We take it all in without realising, and subconsciously it becomes part of how we’re conditioned to respond.

And of course, those lessons don’t only come from family. They’re also influenced by the wider circles we move through — our communities, cultures, and traditions. Every society has its own language for grief. Some wail publicly and find healing in shared ritual. Others prize composure, privacy, and strength. However it’s expressed, it all comes from the same place — love, and the longing to honour it in the ways we know how.

These familial and cultural blueprints set our expectations for what grief “should” look like — how long it should last, what emotions are acceptable, what strength means, and what silence conceals. Some of us question those messages over time; others internalise and carry them for life. Either way, they can profoundly shape how we move through loss.

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The weight of experience

Every loss we’ve ever lived through leaves its mark. If we’ve faced death before — or experienced trauma, illness, or caregiving — it changes how we meet the next one. In some ways, past losses prepare you for future ones. You learn that grief has its ups and downs, that the pain never goes away entirely but it shifts, and that somehow, even in the worst moments, you find a way to keep going.

For others, like me when Dad died, it’s the first big loss — the one that upends your world. It’s disorienting, gut-wrenching, all-consuming, and nothing prepares you for it. You can read about grief, witness it, walk beside others through it — as I had, in my years caring for patients and their families — but when it’s your turn, it’s completely different. All that knowledge dissolves in the face of love and loss.

Our past experiences, and how much we’ve processed them, shape our capacity to sit with pain, our tolerance for uncertainty, and our ability to reach for help. But each new loss still demands its own process. Grief never repeats itself exactly — it just asks us to meet it with whatever strength and wisdom we’ve gathered along the way.

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Mind, body & support

How we cope with loss often depends on where we’re at — physically, mentally, and emotionally — when it happens. The stress we’re carrying, the energy we have, any health challenges we’re managing all affect how we experience grief. If we’re already depleted from illness, caregiving, or emotional strain, loss can feel heavier and take longer to move through.

Grief, in turn, takes its own toll. It can show up in the body as exhaustion, muscle tension, brain fog, or restlessness, and it can cloud the mind with confusion or fatigue. Those effects are often magnified when we’ve been running on empty for too long. The body keeps score of what the heart feels, reminding us that grief is a whole-body experience, not just an emotional one.

Support makes a difference too. We don’t heal in isolation. The care we receive from family, friends, colleagues, and community, shapes how we cope. Feeling understood, supported, and accompanied in our grief doesn’t erase the pain, but it helps us carry it.

There really is no right or wrong way to grieve. Over time, that’s the lesson I’ve come back to again and again — especially on the days that bring Dad to mind. We each find our own way to remember, to honour, to keep loving the person who’s gone.

For me, that’s through words and connection — talking about him, writing about him, keeping his stories alive. For my mum, it’s through ritual and prayer. For my sister, it’s through quiet remembrance.

Different expressions, same love.

Grief isn’t a test of strength or a measure of devotion. It’s a reflection of our relationships, our history, our temperament, and our humanity. It’s as unique as a fingerprint.

So when you catch yourself comparing your grief to someone else’s, wondering why you’re “not over it yet,” or why another person seems fine, remember this: you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing it your way — whatever helps you keep moving, keep loving, and keep living fully.

Until next time,

Have you ever found yourself grieving the same loss differently from someone else? I’d love to hear from you.

What do you think has most influenced the way you grieve — your upbringing, your personality, your culture, or something else?

Grieve Fully, Live Fully

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