Why It’s Important to Honor Every Loss
—Even if it doesn’t involve death
“When you honor what you have, you honor what I’ve lost.” — Brené Brown, Daring Greatly
This quote, posted several years ago, showed up as a memory on Facebook today. The post has no attached picture because nine years ago I only owned a flip phone. I also didn’t have a journaling practice back then, so there is no dusty notebook to search for clues about my post.
Other than guessing I was reading Daring Greatly that day, I’m not sure why those words spoke loud enough that I posted them on social media. But they got my attention again today.
Ironically, this morning, I had just finished reading the pages about grief and loss in Brené Brown’s most recent book, Atlas of the Heart.
In mapping grief, she quotes Robert A. Neimeyer, a University of Memphis psychology and research professor:
“A central process in grieving is the attempt to reaffirm or reconstruct a world of meaning that has been challenged by loss.”
The pandemic of the last two years has forced all of us into reconstructing our physical, emotional and social worlds. But rather than “patching” the roof or replacing a window, the rebuilding must begin at the foundation. We first need to identify the loss—within ourselves.
Identifying the loss
“Nothing that grieves us can be called little: by the eternal laws of proportion a child’s loss of a doll and king’s loss of a crown are events of the same size.” —Mark Twain
Death and divorce are easily identified as losses. Beyond the physical separation, we often struggle to grieve the loss of relationships and emotional connections. Therapists specializing in death or separations offer vital support during these life-changing experiences.
But there are also losses that aren’t as easy to see, or losses we dismiss as “little.” For example, status shifts in our relationships with family, friends, or colleagues are too often waved off as “that’s just life” or “things change.” Yes, we can expect constant change. It’s part of being human, but not recognizing the change as a loss can cause more damage than the original loss.
Because loss is pain.
“If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it.” —Richard Rohr
Pre-pandemic, I noticed a close friendship fading. We no longer saw each other as frequently and when we did, it was in a group setting. The opportunities for intimate conversations disappeared. And we all know how risky and impossible it is to be vulnerable over text or email.
Even our phone calls felt veiled. When I tried to root out the cause, I heard “Everything is fine. I’ve just been busy.” And when I dared to disclose a personal struggle, the response sounded like it was coming from a colleague rather than someone I’d once let into the sacred space of my heart.
The pandemic stretched the physical distance between us. Group gatherings disappeared. Even invitations to outdoor interactions were declined or not reciprocated. Disappointments piled up.
At times, I felt inexplicably irritable or sad.
Anger, fear and frustration flattened my understanding of the demands on my friend’s time. The truth is, we make time for what is important. I became so annoyed with her lack of interest in what was once a treasured relationship that I turned down her next long-awaited invitation simply out of spite. Not a proud moment, but one that prompted me to reflect on what was happening to our friendship.
I was experiencing a loss. The loss of a long-term friendship. What I thought I knew about “us” and about “her” became a reflective question: what do I know about “me?” I longed for the friendship we once had: the heartfelt conversations, the private jokes, the hugs offered when there were no words.
Well-meaning people suggested I “move on” and develop existing friendships into more meaningful relationships. They didn’t recognize my loss. Either they’d never fully identified a similar loss within themselves, or perhaps my loss made them uncomfortable. And their response was to find the fastest way out of their own discomfort. It’s what our biology drives us to do—escape discomfort quickly. But our hearts long for different responses: compassion, patience, connection.
The responses of a time-tested friendship.
Ugh…deep friendships take time…years. The kind of friendship that makes space for all our emotions and will sit silently, facing the struggle together.
The hard truth is, if my friend had died or moved away, the grieving process would’ve been more defined. Perhaps even easier—for me, for her, and for those around us.
One day, in the middle of a “good cry,” I recognized the change in our friendship as a loss.
I dared to call it a death.
I understood death and the resulting loss of relationship. This felt similar, even though it’s never productive to compare our sufferings. I was losing a person from my life because we no longer shared a similar vision for our friendship. I realized she would no longer be “my person.” One of the few people my heart felt safe with.
The minute I changed my perspective and called the dying friendship a death, I felt a weight lifted. I needed to grieve the loss (not easy or quick) and then decide what my reconstructed world of friendship would look like. She wouldn’t be completely gone from that world, but it would be different.
I’d identified the loss, but that left me feeling stuck. After listening to Michael Hebb’s TED Talk “What happens when death is what’s for dinner?” and reading his book, Let’s Talk About Death Over Dinner, I realized I could only rebuild and heal if I first honored the loss.
Honoring the loss
“We never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder creatures.” —Gail Calwell
There are no rituals for these intangible types of loss. When there is a physical death, we have funerals and celebrations of life. We pull out the photo albums and tell the stories—the fun ones and even the painful ones. People are there to listen to our stories and share their own memories of the deceased.
But when we lose a relationship or it changes, we can find ourselves stuck.
One way to move forward is to honor that loss through reminiscing, journaling and storytelling. In my case, I pulled out some old photos and recalled the feelings of those shared moments. I practiced gratitude for the vulnerability and strength I’d embrace during our deepest moments of friendship. My memories of her confidential stories reminded me of the compassion needed when listening to a friend, especially a new friend. (Note to self: Maybe I’d let my compassion slack?)
I shared my feelings of disappointment and sadness with my husband and another close friend. They simply listened—on multiple occasions. Neither encouraged me to “move along.” And when the feelings of anger surfaced or a complex muddle of feelings left me speechless, I pulled out my journal and simple wrote. My words started off raw…cussing and poor grammar were acceptable. By the time I finished, my hand was sore, and the pages were tear-stained.
When I stepped back from each of these moments intended to honor and mourn my loss, I felt a tiny bit stronger and more hopeful. And while I never doubted I could walk through the wreckage of a decaying relationship, I wasn’t sure I had the tools to move forward in a way that honored our years of friendship. I was ready and open to take the next step.
The tools appeared. Slowly.
Tools for rebuilding
“Sometimes we must break completely in order to rebuild fully. Trust your ability to transform.” —Alex Elle
It wasn’t that my tools for dealing with loss had gone anywhere. I used them whenever faced with loss of life—family, friends, colleages, and pets. I even used them when dealing with loss of people I didn’t know personally, but their stories and life’s work had impacted my life—musicians, authors, poets, actors.
However, I usually dismissed them as impractical or unhelpful when it came to lost opportunities: jobs, travel, attending important life events. All those situations where I tried to ignore the deep feelings of loss. But the similarities of these “small” losses to a physical death haunted me. I wondered if the tools for grieving a death might be of any help.
One of the first tools I explored was the original five stages of grief (as defined by Elizabeth Kubler Ross): denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The last step being explained as:
“Coming to terms with the fact that your loved one is no longer physically with you and realizing that it’s a permanent reality. It’s not about learning to like the new reality. It’s about learning to live with this new norm. It’s about learning to readjust to life by taking on new roles or assigning them to others. It’s not about replacing the loved one, but instead about making new connections and relationships. It’s about beginning the process of learning, exploring, and evolving into a new day-to-day reality.”
I needed to adjust my life strategies and my expectations about this friend. Unlike death, she wasn’t totally going away, and it didn’t have to be a permanent end to the friendship. But I had to figure out what her role in my friendship circle would look like. I also needed to accept and embrace the work of making new connections and friendships. And the older we get, the harder that can be.
Another helpful tool I used was a gratitude letter. It didn’t take me long to write my letter, but finding the courage to share it took me a couple weeks. Sitting at a quiet corner table in one of our favorite happy hour locations, I read the letter to her. We laughed and teared-up over my words and the memories they highlighted. In my heart, I suspected this might be the “last” of such treasured meetings.
My goal was simply to leave nothing left unsaid about the importance of her role in my life over the years. I needed the time and space to share our friendship story. And then tuck those stories away for when loss revisited—and it always does. But the healing began with that “last” meeting over a year ago.
Since then, we’ve checked-in via text, chatted on the phone and even gotten together. I’m not sure if she is aware of the significant changes to our relationship, or if she’s traveling her own journey of loss. However, the reconstructed relationship is surprisingly solid. Our casual friendship offers bursts of positive energy, exposes me to new ideas and offers a sense of connection—true gifts without the expectations of emotional deep-dives.
It was through this grief process my loss moved from acceptance to meaning—or the sixth stage of grief. David Kessler, Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ academic partner, defined this stage in his book, Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief:
“Ultimately, meaning comes through find a way to sustain your love for the person after their death while you’re moving forward with your life.”
Reading these words resonated with my loss of this treasured friendship.
It wasn’t about finding “closure” after my loss, because my friend was still part of my life, just a much smaller part. But even in death, Kessler talks about finding meaning by learning to remember more of the love for the person than the pain of losing them. Then we can discover how to move forward in a way that honors our loved ones.
Whether you work through the stages of grief (loss) through storytelling, journaling, gratitude letters, or your own unique process, the important lesson is to identify the loss and then honor it—with more love than pain. Limiting ourselves to only processing the grief stages when there is a physical death, leaves us stuck. That’s exactly how I felt before I stepped into the stages of grief.
When I honored my friend with more love than pain, I found healing and meaning. It was the relationship’s final gift to me.
Now I honor the friendship I have, in order to honor the friendship I lost. When you honor the friendships you have, you honor the one I have lost.
Because this time, I am the storyteller. But next time, it might be you.
The next step: reconstruction and time
“The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief — but the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love.” — Hilary Stanton Zunin
The type of loss is not the important part. It’s honoring the loss, returning to our foundational beliefs and rebuilding from there. But reconstruction takes time, energy and the right tools for the work at hand. Seeking the right tools is part of the process and it can be its own practice in patience.
My “this is like a death” aha moment was actually a series of moments over more than two years. And if I’m honest, I’m still waiting for the last of the dust to settle from my reconstruction. However, I also suspect I will forever carry some of that dust in my heart.
While loss never leaves us, when we look for the meaning, our loss will leave us changed and moving forward.
If you are ready to write a bigger story, one that asks challenging questions and leans into dreams, you are invited join me on the journey of finding the answers already inside you. Download my free guide: The Three Starter Seeds.