Grief as Transformational

Written by: Liz Cerven

Dear Reader,

Grief is a strange teacher.
It arrives without invitation, rearranges the furniture of our lives, and asks us to sit in a room we no longer recognize. At first, it feels like being stripped down to bone—every comfort pulled away, every certainty dissolved.

But grief is not a straight road.
It does not follow tidy steps or predictable stages, no matter what we’ve been told. It swells and recedes, curls back on itself, surprises us with sudden tenderness or unexpected ache. We may feel joy in the morning and sorrow by afternoon. We may circle the same terrain again and again, each time finding something new—a different angle of light, a fragment of meaning we couldn’t see before.

Grief is not only loss—it is threshold.
It asks us to release who we thought we were so we can meet who we are becoming. It asks us to shed the husks that can no longer hold us, to walk unclothed into the truth that nothing was ever permanent, and yet everything leaves an imprint. Through grief and loss, we come face-to-face with life’s impermanence—not in an abstract way, but in the marrow of our being. And strangely, this recognition makes life itself shimmer. “To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your life depends on it; and, when the time comes, to let it go.” —Mary Oliver.

We can see this truth reflected everywhere in the natural world. The forest lets go of its leaves each autumn, not as a failure but as preparation for the next bloom. The river accepts the drought and the flood, knowing both are part of its shape. The moon wanes into darkness and still trusts it will return to fullness. Even the mountains, which seem unmovable, are slowly wearing down, becoming something new.

Death, life, and grief are not separate here—they are braided together. The decay of fallen leaves becomes the soil that feeds spring. The breaking of ocean waves makes room for the next to rise. The seed splits open in darkness before it reaches toward the light. Nature does not cling to what was; it honors the cycle by continuing to move, to transform, to live.

And so it is with us.
To move through grief is to go beyond simply coping. Coping seeks to manage or contain; transformation asks us to be changed. Grief cracks us open, but it also expands us, giving us a capacity for love, empathy, and presence we might not have imagined before. It shows us that while nothing stays, much can grow—inside us, between us, and in the spaces where absence has carved new room.

There is liberation here, if we allow it.
The kind that comes from knowing we cannot go back, so we must go forward with a tender fierceness. The kind that whispers that endings are not just closures, but openings to a life that can hold more—more depth, more presence, more love. As Rumi wrote, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

If you are grieving, you are also transforming. And like all transformations, it is messy, holy, and unrepeatable.

And so, may you carry your loss as gently as the sky holds the moon.
May you feel the ground steady beneath you, even when your heart does not.
May you remember that you are still here, still breathing, still capable of wonder.
For even in the deepest winter, the seeds are waiting—quiet, patient, certain of spring.

With you in the in-between,