Grief Holds us Hostage

Ok so one of my most favorite movies of all time is a lively little raunchy humor movie called “Drop Dead Fred.”  Long story short, the imaginary friend comes back into a woman’s life as she is an adult and wreaks havoc.  There is one scene where he goes outside, covers his shoes in dog poo and goes into her mother’s freshly cleaned white living room and proceeds to spread it everywhere.

That’s grief.  

Grief doesn’t knock politely.  It bursts in and spreads dog crap on your white sofa.

It doesn’t care about your to-do list.
It doesn’t care that you're already late picking up the kids or that you're still supposed to smile at work.

Basically; Grief takes us hostage.
It ties your focus to a chair and demands your full attention. Some days, it whispers. Other days, it screams.
But most days? It just sits there like an invisible weight strapped to your back. Heavy, unseen, and misunderstood.

And the worst part?  You can look totally “fine” while carrying it. You might laugh at a joke. You might get groceries. You might even remember to wear pants.

But inside, there’s this endless loop playing in your head that no one else can hear: They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re still gone.

There’s a kind of quiet madness in grief. A disorienting blend of I can’t believe this happened and Why hasn’t the world stopped spinning?

You might find yourself crying in the frozen food aisle because a bag of peas reminded you of something you didn’t even know you’d forgotten.  You might avoid a song, a room, a date on the calendar like it's laced with poison.

Grief doesn’t play fair. It kidnaps your sense of normal and offers nothing in return but this wild, uncomfortable, soul-altering ache.

And yet. (There’s always an “and yet.”)

Even though grief holds us hostage, it’s not just a tormentor.  It’s also the evidence of love.
It’s the echo of connection. It’s the price we pay for having let ourselves care so deeply.

Grief is brutal, yes. But it’s also sacred.

It demands stillness in a world that won’t stop moving.  It cracks us open so something true can rise. And if we’re brave enough to stay in the room with it, we may find that it begins to loosen its grip.

Not all at once, (And certainly not neatly.) but slowly and surely.

So if you’re currently tied to grief’s chair listening to its schemes,  just know:
You’re not broken.  You’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

And that is a sacred kind of survival.