Why Grief Is Just Another Word for Love

I have this extremely vivid memory of my friend’s mom from when I was about eight years old. I was playing at her house one summer evening, and after running around outside, I went into the kitchen to grab some water. As I was heading back out, I noticed her mom and dad in the hallway.

Her mom—who I remember so clearly because she was beautiful, kind, and always so warm to me—was crying. Her husband was holding her close, comforting her. They both saw me watching from the kitchen, and I froze, unsure of what was happening. Her mom was holding a framed, black-and-white photograph of a striking woman with dark hair. It was her mother—my friend’s grandmother.

As my friend’s mom wiped her tears, she gave me a soft smile to let me know she was okay. Her husband turned the photo toward me and explained, “This is her mom, and today is her birthday.” He didn’t have to say that her mom had passed—I somehow just knew. What I couldn’t grasp at the time was why his wife was crying. To me, birthdays were for cake, presents, and parties.

I can still picture how heartbroken she looked. She missed her mom so much. She held the photo close, almost hugging it, while her husband wrapped her in another embrace. I turned back outside, but that moment never left me.

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about why it stuck with me. There were a few things happening all at once. First, I saw my friend’s mom—someone who was always so full of joy—crying. As a child, it hadn’t occurred to me that adults cried too. Then there was her husband, so tender and compassionate, holding her up in that painful moment. And finally, it was my very first glimpse of how families navigate grief and talk about loss—gently, with love, and in a way a child could understand.

Now, at 34, I understand that hallway moment much more deeply. I felt it myself this past Mother’s Day. I miss my mom. She’s not here the way she once was—truthfully, not at all. Last Sunday, I found myself crying while looking at a photo of her, just like my friend’s mom did all those years ago.

Grief, as brutal as it can be, has taught me something important: it is proof of love. The tears, the longing, the ache—it all stems from the gift of having loved and been loved so deeply. That’s how I keep myself from sinking into sadness. I allow myself to break down when I need to, but afterward, I remind myself how lucky I am.

It’s ironic, in a way. I miss my mom’s presence and all the little things we used to do together, but in my hardest moments, I have my husband’s love to lean on. Just like my friend’s mom, I am held, comforted, and hugged until the tears run dry. And that makes me feel incredibly blessed. It’s double the love.

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