Grief is a powerful force that strips life down to its bare essentials, reminding us of the deep connections we share. It arrives without permission, disregards schedules, and shatters our illusions of control. When someone we love dies, the world keeps moving, but our internal world grinds to an excruciating halt, revealing the true cost of profound attachment.

Fourteen years ago, our family faced unimaginable grief when the baby meant to be our third daughter died from an umbilical cord accident while still in my wife's womb. The accident proved fatal and led to intrauterine fetal demise. At that moment, grief devastated our family and extended relatives.

Eleven years ago, grief knocked at our door once again. My cousin, Atty. Chingky Santiago, daughter of former Supreme Court Associate Justice Consuelo Ynares-Santiago, succumbed to cancer. Our collective grief was similarly devastating, particularly to Justice Elo. She shared the pain of a parent who had to bury an offspring, the very same ordeal we went through after losing our baby.

And just a few days ago, grief returned. Governor Nina’s husband, James Chiongbian II, passed away. Governor Nina’s profound grief was evident in her announcement on social media of her husband’s death. “We never got to grow old together, but you are home now,” she wrote. “Never got to grow old together” – those words express the most painful realization of a spouse who has been left behind to face the burden of grieving alone.

With these moments, people ask how I deal with grief after losing someone. “With much difficulty,” I say. After such loss, ordinary things feel unbearable: An empty chair at dinner, a missed call, a birthday that hurts more than it celebrates.

People say we should “move on” after loss, but that phrase misses what grief is. Love stays even when a person is gone. We do not just leave those who hold our hearts. The better goal is to move forward—with memories, sadness, and in time, gratitude.

This is the important lesson: Grief is not something to conquer. It is something to carry.

One of the hardest truths about losing a loved one is that no universal timeline exists for healing.

Society tends to tolerate grief briefly. There is sympathy at the funeral, support in the first few weeks, and then an unspoken expectation that life should return to normal. But I learned that grief rarely obeys social expectations. A person may seem composed for months and then collapse emotionally while hearing a familiar song in a grocery store. Another may laugh one day and cry uncontrollably the next.

None of these is irrational. Grief is unpredictable because we love deeply.

Some tend to judge themselves harshly while grieving. They wonder whether they are crying too much, not crying enough, recovering too quickly, or failing to recover at all. I learned that this self-surveillance only deepens suffering. There is no correct performance of grief. Some people need solitude; others need constant companionship. Some revisit photographs every day; others cannot bear to look at them for years. Healing is personal, and comparison is destructive.

At the same time, grief should not become isolation. Pain has a way of convincing us that no one could possibly understand what they are experiencing. While every loss is unique, suffering shared with others becomes more bearable. Conversations with family and friends can create space for grief to breathe rather than suffocate in silence. I learned that strength is not measured by emotional suppression. We appreciate our strength in our willingness to admit that we are struggling.

Here is an uncomfortable reality: Grief changes people permanently. After a profound loss, we may find ourselves reevaluating priorities, relationships, and even identity itself. I discovered that some become more compassionate; others become more fearful. Some discover resilience they never knew they possessed. Loss exposes the fragility of life, but it can also sharpen our appreciation for what remains. This does not mean tragedy is secretly beneficial or that suffering happens “for a reason.”

It means we, human beings, are capable of finding meaning even in devastation. And, we must.

Perhaps the most compassionate thing I can say about grief is that it reflects the value of the relationship that existed before the loss. We grieve deeply because we loved deeply. The sorrow is evidence that someone mattered. And while our grief can feel endless in the beginning, we can eventually discover that life slowly expands around the pain.

Joy returns quietly, gently—never betraying the memory of our dearly departed, but as an affirmation of our endurance, and our will to survive.

We know that the loss of a loved one is never fully resolved. The vacuum death creates is permanent, and it becomes part of our emotional landscape. But grief is not only about death. It is also about connection, memory, and enduring love.

That is the better understanding of grief. It is the steep price we pay for learning to love in ways that endure for a lifetime.

(The author is a Doctor of Medicine, an entrepreneur and the mayor of Antipolo City, former Rizal governor, and DENR assistant secretary, LLDA general manager. Email: [email protected])