The Grief That Doesn’t Get a Eulogy

A letter to the quiet/hidden/unseen grievers

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Grief isn’t just for the ones we’ve buried. It’s also for the versions of ourselves we’ve left behind, the life we thought we’d be living, the dreams that never made it out of our hearts, the paths we thought were specific and for sure but suddenly disappeared beneath our feet.

After my last post on not knowing God as my Healer, I spoke to a few women who were yet to experience the close death of a loved one but still felt a sense of "loss."

This is for them.

For those who cry at night, not over a missing person but still grieving nonetheless.

This is for the unseen losses, the ones that don’t get spoken of at funerals or memorials but still leave us hollowed out, searching for something we can’t quite name.
The ones that aren’t as “substantial” or weighty as my loss of a child, so your lament is swallowed on my behalf, attempting to tiptoe around my feelings for fear of coming off as insensitive.

What Are You Mourning?

Maybe you’re grieving the body you once had, the version of you that was fitter, more vibrant, more confident. The one who could run without thinking, who could slip into jeans without hesitation, who didn’t carry the weight of years of childbirth or illness or depression or self-doubt. (Peri-menopause, anyone?)

Maybe you’re mourning a relationship, not because the person is gone from this earth, but because they’re not who you thought they’d be. The love you thought would last forever, the friendship you thought would never fade, the connection that now feels like a stranger’s hand slipping from yours.

Maybe it’s a career that never took off the way you imagined or the quiet ache of watching time slip past while you’re still standing in the waiting.

The waiting for something, anything, to change.

The waiting for life to feel like it’s yours again.

God Sees the Silent Ache

I see you. And more importantly, God sees you.

He sees the way you fold your grief into the corners of your day, the way you tuck it into your pockets like a stone you can’t stop touching. He sees the way it spills out in the quiet moments when the house is still, the world feels too big, and you’re left alone with the weight of what could have been.

He sees the way you try to hold it together, the way you tell yourself to be grateful, to move on, to let go.

But He doesn’t ask you to hold it together. He doesn’t ask you to pretend.

Permission to Grieve the Unseen

We don’t often give ourselves permission to grieve what didn’t happen. We tell ourselves (and the world reiterates it) that it wasn’t meant to be, or we should just be grateful for what we have. And while gratitude is beautiful, it doesn’t erase disappointment. It doesn’t silence the ache of what’s missing.

God doesn’t ask us to pretend we’re fine; He asks us to bring it to Him.

Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you (1 Peter 5:7).

He doesn’t want your polished prayers or your brave face. He wants your raw, unfiltered heart. The one that’s cracked and bruised and still beating despite it all.

You are allowed to feel the weight of what was lost, even if it was never tangible, even if it’s not considered an actual loss by others.

You’re allowed to miss the past version of yourself, even if she wasn’t perfect.

You’re allowed to ache for the dream that hasn’t yet come to pass.

The Truth Grief Clouds

But here’s the truth that grief can sometimes cloud: God is still writing your story.

Losing one version of life doesn’t mean God is done with you.

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? (Isaiah 43:18-19).

He is still shaping, building, and guiding you toward something different but still right on time.

Even when you can’t see it. Even when it feels like the road has ended and the map has been torn to pieces.

What If the Dream Wasn’t Yours to Keep?

What if the dream that slipped through your fingers was never meant to be yours because He had something better?

What if the past version of yourself was never the best version?

What if who you are becoming is exactly who you were meant to be?

What if the ache you carry is not a sign of failure but a sign of growth? A sign that you dared to dream, love, and hope.

And even in loss, you are still held by the One who restores all things in His time.

Grief doesn’t mean failure. It means you lived. It means you loved. It means you hoped. It means you were brave enough to believe in something, even if it didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.

And even now, in the midst of the ache, you are still held. You are still seen. You are still loved.

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A Prayer for the Quiet Grievers

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Father,

You see the silent grief we carry, the ache of what could have been. You know the tears we cry over a past we can’t return to, a dream that feels forever out of reach, a version of ourselves we no longer recognize.

Lord, we lay it all at Your feet. Help us to trust that what You withhold, You redeem. That what feels like an ending may only be the beginning of something more beautiful than we ever imagined.

Give us the courage to let go where we need to and the faith to keep believing where You’ve called us to wait. Let Your peace fill the empty spaces, and Your presence be our deepest comfort.

We don’t always understand Your ways, but we trust Your heart. Help us to see the new thing You’re doing, even when it feels hidden. Help us to believe that You are still working, even when we can’t see the evidence.

Thank You for holding us in our grief, for never dismissing our pain, for never asking us to pretend. Thank You for being the God who sees, the God who restores, the God who makes all things new. Amen.

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You Are Still Held

And if you’re reading this, carrying a grief that feels too heavy to name, know this: you are not alone.

You are not forgotten.

You are not too broken to be loved.

The story isn’t over. The God who sees you is still writing your next chapter.

And it’s going to be beautiful, darling.

Love,

1. Have you ever grieved a version of yourself or a dream that didn’t come to pass? What did that feel like?

2. What’s one thing you wish people understood about grief that isn’t tied to losing a person?

3. What’s one thing you’d say to someone else carrying an unseen grief?