Reflections From A Therapist After Losing My Mother

Life doesn’t care what you do for a living. It doesn’t soften because you’ve studied pain. And grief doesn’t always follow the stages and steps we so often speak about in clinical settings.

When I lost my mother, the ground beneath me shifted in a way no textbook could prepare me for. Despite years of sitting across from people in their most vulnerable moments, nothing fully readied me for the quiet, unrelenting ache of absence.

In the days following her death, I found myself toggling between two versions of myself. One, the daughter – raw, untethered, grieving. The other, the therapist – curious, observing, searching for meaning. It was a strange, holding space for my own heartbreak while noticing my own coping mechanisms unfold in real time.

I noticed how quickly I reached for distractions, how easily I slipped into hyper-functioning mode, how tempting avoidance really was. And when I did collapse and allowed myself to feel my feelings, how deeply the waves of sorrow pulled me under. I wasn’t exempt from any of it.

The things I thought I knew

Grief has taught me that knowing something intellectually is not the same as living it. I used to offer clients reassurance: “Grief is not linear.” I said it kindly. I believed it. But now I feel it. Some days, I am okay. Other days, a smell, a blanket, or my daughter’s innocent question gets me.

I also believed that grief was about sadness. I now understand it’s about disorientation. It’s about learning to live in a world that no longer contains a person you love. It’s about rebuilding a life with something missing.

What I have learned since

Since my mother died, I’ve become gentler with myself. I no longer rush healing. I don’t ask pain to be productive.

I’ve also learned to hold space for contradictory truths: that we can be grateful and devastated at once. That we can carry love and regret in the same breath. That healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And that grief, when allowed to move freely, has its own strange kind of wisdom.

Inviting Memory

One thing that’s helped me is creating small rituals, visiting her gravesite with close friends, telling stories about her. These aren’t grand gestures, but they anchor me. They remind me that love doesn’t end. It changes form. But it doesn’t just disappear.

I don’t have tidy conclusions. Only that grief is not a pathology to treat, but a wound to care for. And sometimes the most therapeutic thing we can do – for ourselves or others – is to sit quietly beside the pain, without rushing to fix it.