Nothing prepares you for grief. It arrives with a force that feels almost impersonal - like a natural disaster - and yet it touches everything personal. You go from holding someone’s hand to holding memories. And no matter how old you are, no matter how much you think you understand impermanence, it knocks the wind out of you.
When you are in your 40s, 50s, or beyond, grief lands differently. Time begins to look shorter. The losses feel closer to home - not just emotionally, but existentially. You start to see how fragile everything is. And yet, somehow, you keep going.
In the beginning, you do what you have to. You take care of the paperwork. You answer the condolences. You try to remember to eat. But then comes the part no one tells you about: the long, quiet stretch where nothing makes sense, and the world keeps spinning as though yours did not fall apart.
What helped me - quietly, without fixing anything - were the photographs. A smile caught mid-laugh. A look across the table. Not posed, not planned. Just proof that we were here. That we loved. That something mattered.
That is what photography can offer: not closure, but connection. A way to keep close what should never be entirely gone.
Grief does not get wrapped up. It softens. It becomes part of your rhythm. And over time, you begin to rebuild - not into the person you were, but into someone who now knows what it means to lose. And live anyway.
There is no right way. But there is your way. And it begins with allowing yourself to be where you are, without apology or explanation.