Grief: My Sacred Teacher.....

Journey Through Grief

Grief is one of the most universal—and yet most misunderstood—human experiences. No matter who we are, where we come from, or what we believe, grief touches our lives in some form: through the loss of a loved one, the end of a relationship, a change in health, the loss of a dream, or the shedding of an old identity. In that sense, grief is not an interruption to life—it is woven into the fabric of being human.

Many of us are taught to treat grief as something to hide, manage, or move past quickly. We are told to compare ourselves with others and feel fortunate that our grief is “not that bad,” to accept it quickly, to move on. Boys are told not to cry; girls are told not to be weeping or complaining all the time. Strength and composure are praised, while vulnerability is seen as weakness. But grief has its own intelligence and rhythm. When we stop resisting it and begin listening, grief reveals itself not only as pain but also as a profound teacher.

The Loss That Changed Everything

I first met grief intimately when I was in medical college. My father was suddenly hospitalized, and within just a few weeks, he was gone. I was the youngest—pampered, protected, living the life of a princess who believed the ground beneath her would always remain solid. My father was the only earning member of our family and the only one in his own family—no parents, no siblings. When he died, it felt as if an entire pillar of existence had vanished in one moment.

The shock did not belong to me alone. Everyone in the family was shattered. I realized something that would shape me for the rest of my life: there was no one left who could be my rock. There was no one who could hold me while I fell apart. So I did what many people do when there is no space to be weak—I became strong. I stopped crying in front of others. I decided, silently, that vulnerability was not safe, that showing my pain would only add to the burden around me. People around me never truly knew how much I was hurting. That void, created by my father’s absence, was never filled. Even today, more than 27 years later, it remains.

I cry in his memories, alone. I talk to him. I tell him how far I have come professionally and personally.

How Grief Shaped Strength and Independence

After my father’s death, life was not only emotionally difficult—it was financially frightening. People advised my mother to tell me to drop out of medical college, to stop spending money on education, to get married instead. But my mother stood by me.

Managing fees and monthly expenses was a constant struggle. Yet somehow, we managed. Looking back, it feels as though my father’s blessings never left us. Again and again, help came from unexpected places. Doors opened when they had no logical reason to.

Today, when I look at my life—my practice, my work, the stability, the recognition—I feel he is still watching, still guiding, still sending support in ways that cannot be explained. His absence made me strong, independent, self-reliant, and self-sufficient. The space he left will never be filled, but it has been filled with something else: a quiet, living presence. He would have been 81 this year, and I know he would be happy seeing the progress my brothers and I have made. The goodness he earned in life—by helping hundreds and thousands of people—still continues to protect and support us.

Walking Through Grief and Healing

For many years, I carried my grief with discipline and dignity, but not with softness. Only later did I realize that grief does not heal through control—it heals through being felt. Strength became my survival, but not my healing.

Grief has a natural rhythm. At first, it turns inward. We become quieter, reflective, withdrawn. Our energy drops. Our interest in the outer world fades. This is not weakness—it is the soul asking for space to absorb a deep rupture. But if grief is allowed to move, it eventually invites connection. Slowly, it draws us back toward life, toward others, toward shared human experience. Speaking, crying, or even sitting in silence with another can soften the weight of grief.

In my practice, I have seen grief take many forms: numbness, anxiety, chronic illness, or quiet withdrawal. Unexpressed grief does not disappear—it finds another language. Yet, when people are finally allowed to feel, to speak, to be witnessed, something begins to reorganize inside them. The pain remains, but the heart learns to carry it differently.

Crying is not weakness. Tears are a language of the soul. It is okay to not be okay. It is okay to feel broken. It is okay to let grief have its own voice and timing. We are not meant to be happy all the time. We are meant to be real.

The Transformative Power of Grief

Spiritually, grief can break the illusions of control, permanence, and certainty. It humbles and softens us. It brings us face to face with impermanence. And yet, it can also open a deeper connection to those who have left us. Love endures—it changes, but it never leaves; it never dies...

Psychologically, healthy grieving is not about "getting over" something. It is about finding a new way to carry it. What begins as sharp, overwhelming pain slowly becomes a tender presence, a quiet force that shapes how we love, act, and live.

Holding space for others in their grief is one of the greatest gifts. Listening without fixing, witnessing without judgment, being present without rushing—this is how shared humanity heals. In holding space for another, we remember our own shared vulnerability.

Grief teaches us that the human heart is far larger than we imagine. It can hold joy and sorrow, sometimes at the same time. Grief does not make us weak. It makes us human. It proves that we have loved.

Living With Grief

Grief is not something to get over. It is something to walk with. My father’s absence is still here, and so is his presence. Love does not end—it changes form. And we, too, are changed in the process, often into deeper, stronger, and more compassionate versions of ourselves.

Through grief, we learn the capacity to endure, to connect, to feel, and to grow. It is both a wound and a teacher, shaping the way we live, love, and witness life.