WHAT GRIEF IS TEACHING ME ABOUT LOVE

I've sat to write to you so many times only to end on a blank page. Summer has been filled with grief-filled endings and new beginnings. The blank pages weren't writer's block—they were grief itself. How do you capture in words what it feels like when love loses its familiar language? How do you describe having all this love with nowhere familiar for it to go?

It's what I've come to learn about grief—that it carries a swirling unknown that feels deeply confusing, overwhelming, and disorienting. I can't talk about grief without also talking about love. They are inextricable from one another. I'm coming to know grief as an unfamiliar love, love that no longer exists on the same path it used to.

This unfamiliar love has shown up in unexpected places this summer. Grief, I've learned, exists on a spectrum. It came with the passing of my dad in June—sudden, final, absolute. And it came again with the beautiful beginning of my daughter moving out in August—anticipated, necessary, bittersweet. The timing of these two experiences has taught me that grief holds not just the loss of what was, but also the loss of what never was and what will never be again.

There were once phone calls to dad—sharing holidays, birthdays, pictures of the kids enjoying their summer. There were daily rhythms with my daughter, those first morning moments and last ones before bed. Now there is only the muscle memory of reaching for love in ways that no longer work. 

I'm beginning to understand new truths about love. Love is on its own timeline.

Love doesn't follow our emotional schedule. We can't demand that love show up when we need it most. Sometimes when I’m thinking about dad, I just go numb–I feel disconnected from my own feelings when I most want to feel connected to him. Other times, his presence or influence hits me completely unexpectedly—in the middle of a grocery store passing by one of his favorite foods or while watching Carson play basketball, remembering how my dad never missed a game when I played, how I could always look up and find him in his usual spot in the bleachers.

Love doesn't rush to heal. Our culture wants grief to have a timetable, but love refuses to be hurried. Just when I think I 'should' be further along in adjusting to my dad's absence, I find myself scrolling to his number on my phone, treasuring those last texts and voicemails. The familiar sound of his voice transports me—not to the confusion of his final months, but to the memory of a time when he was engaged and well, when his laugh came easily and his stories had clear beginnings and endings. These moments aren't setbacks; they're love insisting on its own pace. Love takes the time it takes, no matter what I think my timeline should be.

Love doesn't wait for permission. Sometimes Ava calls or surprises us with a visit exactly when I need to hear from her most. Other times, silence lingers when I'm craving connection—when her corner of the house feels too quiet, when I catch myself looking for her car in the driveway before going to bed or her voice calling from upstairs. I want to see her navigating the ordinary, to know she's eating well, sleeping enough, finding her way in this new independence. But love has its own sense of timing that I'm still learning to trust.

My dad was never an outwardly sentimental or emotional guy. When we went through a box of his things he'd kept over the years—sports articles from when I was in high school, mementos from my wedding, pictures, announcements, and accolades—he had saved them all. I was overwhelmed with love, a deep knowing of the words he never spoke. I am left with a new curiosity about the parts of him I'll never know. What else was left unsaid?

Here's what I know to be true: when we are grieving, our love isn't lost; it just operates on a different timeline than our grief. Grief operates on crisis time—it's immediate, demanding, raw. It says "I need comfort NOW, I need to feel connected NOW, I need this pain to make sense NOW." Grief feels like quicksand. It has this desperate, grasping quality that wants resolution.

But love operates on eternal time—it's patient, persistent, unrushed. It shows up when it shows up, not when grief demands it. Love says "I'm here, I've always been here, I'll always be here, but I can't be forced into your timetable."

When grief screams for immediate relief or connection, I'm learning to trust that love is quietly working in the background. Just because I can't always feel love on grief's timeline doesn't mean it's lost. It's just operating on its own deeper, slower, more mysterious schedule—more stable, more enduring. I trust my grief will eventually settle into love's rhythm, not the other way around. It's like love is the steady heartbeat underneath grief's erratic breathing.

What I've come to know as necessary in grieving is allowing grace to be my guide. Grace is teaching me to trust love's timing instead of fighting it, to trust the process. Sometimes grace looks like moving slower—letting commitments go, staying home instead of going out, having a good long cry while listening to his favorite music, sitting outside searching for signs—a bird that lingers, a butterfly that lands on me, anything to remind me he is still near. Grace is allowing unexpected emotion to wash over me, even at the most inconvenient times. Grace is trusting the difficult emotions that surface as I heal from what was missing in our relationship. Grace is welcoming the joy of pictures and memories to fill the empty space.

And, if you're walking through your own season of grief, I hope you’ll remember this: your love isn’t gone, even when it feels like it has nowhere familiar to land. It may not look the way it used to. It may move more slowly, speak in quieter ways, or arrive when you least expect it. But it’s still love.

Let grace be your companion. Let it soften the sharp edges, slow the pace, and make space for both the ache and the beauty. Let it remind you that you don’t have to rush to make sense of it all. You’re not late. You’re not behind. You’re simply on love’s timeline now—and it’s a long, winding, generous road.

As always, stay open, brave, and on-purpose.