Grief & Grace - The Loneliness of Grief

Sitting with sorrow is part of healing; your grief has a place here.

When I think back to those early days of loneliness, I remember the depth of the void. It was endless, hollow, and all-consuming. Some days I prayed just to feel numb, because the ache was too much to bear. I moved through life like a zombie, completing tasks simply because I had to, not because I wanted to.

There were moments when I almost forgot. A small laugh, a brief distraction, would slip through—and then reality would come crashing back. The reminder was sharp: I had nothing to laugh about. The loneliness and heartbreak would flood my soul all over again.

I longed for an embrace that could somehow make me feel whole again. But no matter how strong the hug, it couldn’t touch the vast emptiness inside me. I wish it could have. During those times, I felt trapped in a void—desperate for understanding, trying to make sense of what couldn’t be reasoned through. My feelings were too raw to trust, so I sought something outside of myself, anything that might bring peace.

I remember once going to church with my mom. I wasn’t looking for religion, just a moment of comfort, a sense of something steady to hold onto. We didn’t realize it was Palm Sunday, and the place was packed. We sat in the back, clutching the palms, and when it came time for communion, I stayed seated. I hadn’t been to confession in years, and though I needed that moment of grace more than anything, I denied it to myself.

After communion, the priest began to speak about how the church always sees an influx of people when things are given away for free. He called them “A&P people”—Ashes and Palms. My blood boiled. I wanted to stand up and tell him why I was there, to scream that I wasn’t there for a handout but because my world had been shattered. But I didn’t. Instead, Mom and I walked out, got in the car, and ranted the whole way home.

What struck me most was how invisible my grief was. No one sees you are grieving. In older times, people dressed in black for a season of mourning so the world would recognize their sorrow. Maybe that tradition wasn’t just for the grieving person, but for society—to remind others to tread more gently, to offer kindness, to acknowledge the silent ache someone was carrying.

Sometimes I wonder if we need something like that again—a simple sign, a visible marker of mourning. Not for pity, but so that those traveling the lonely road of grief don’t have to walk unseen.

For months, I found myself wondering if they were truly okay. Family and friends reassured me over and over, but how could they really know? I knew they were trying to comfort me, but still, I longed for that certainty.

One evening, my sister and some friends took me out to help me step out of the house. We went for dinner, drinks, and even a tarot reading. I admit, it was nice to be out—the laughter, the smiling faces—but when it was my turn, everything shifted.

I sat at the table, greeted by Kathy, who had read for me several times over the past five or six years. I set down my drink, shuffled the cards, and thought of my loved ones. I cut them into three piles. Kathy picked them up, prayed, and laid them out with her usual care and presence.

The first thing she saw was their death—she knew it had been sudden and that a man and child were involved. But then she said something that changed everything for me: “They want you to know—they are OK.”

Those words—just that simple, profound confirmation—felt like a bridge from their world to mine. The peace and gratitude I felt are beyond what words can convey. In that moment, I realized I wanted to do what Kathy does: to provide hope when people need it most.

She had seen my grief and helped me navigate it.

From that day on, I began learning to read cards with Kathy's guidance. Kathy has and always will be my teacher, my dear friend, my soul sister. She showed me the power of guidance, of reassurance, and of helping others find light in the darkest of times.

Grief can feel heavy and isolating, but you don’t have to walk it alone. If you feel called for support along your journey, you can quietly explore ways I offer guidance here.

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