Why am I grieving someone I didn’t even like?

If you’ve caught yourself saying “this just doesn’t make sense,” I want you to know something right away: you’re not being dramatic, and you’re not stuck.

You’re doing something your mind is built to do.

Most of us walk around with a quiet set of assumptions about how life works. Good people get more time. If you take care of yourself, your body holds up. Effort matters. The people we love will be here for the next chapter. We don’t usually say these things out loud. We just live “knowing” them.

And then a loss comes through and takes everything we knew to be true and proves them wrong.

So the you keep circling the same question at eleven at night - how could this happen, why him, why now, why us - that’s not you failing at grief. That’s your mind standing in the rubble, trying to figure out where the truths are.

Grief doesn’t disrupt everyone’s meaning in the same way.

I’ve noticed that people come to me with the same words but very different aches underneath them. Here’s what it can sound like.

Sometimes it’s the facts that won’t compute. “He was here one minute and gone the next.” You can say the words out loud and still not believe the sentence.

Sometimes it’s direction. “We had all these plans. Now I don’t know what I’m working toward.” You could describe your future in detail a year ago. Now there’s fog where the plan used to be.

Sometimes it’s fairness. “I did everything right. Why was she taken from me?” Something in you kept a ledger, and the ledger just got torn in half.

Sometimes it’s the big questions. “If this can happen, what’s the point of any of it?” Faith you’ve held for decades suddenly won’t hold your weight.

And sometimes it’s about who you were with them. “She was the one who really understood me. Without her, I don’t know who I am.” Not just the person gone - the version of you that only existed with them.

Most people I work with are living with more than one of these at the same time. But usually one of them is the loudest. And knowing which one is loudest for you changes everything about what actually helps.

About the “why”

Here’s something I say gently, because it matters.

Some “why” questions have answers. Why did the treatment stop working. Why the accident happened at that intersection. Those questions can be researched, asked, documented, and eventually set down.

And some “why” questions don’t have answers. Not because you haven’t looked hard enough. Because there isn’t one waiting at the end of the search.

Chasing an unanswerable why can feel like the most loyal thing you can do - like if you stop asking, you’re accepting something unacceptable. I understand that. But I’ve watched that particular search wear people down to the studs while the question stays exactly where it is.

We may never fully understand why this happened. What we can do - later, when you’re ready, and not one minute before - is look at what this loss means to for you now, and how you want to carry it forward.

That’s a different question. And it’s one that actually has an answer.

For right now

You don’t have to resolve anything today. If the only thing you take from this post is “oh, the not-making-sense is part of it,” that’s enough.

If this landed for you, the 2 A.M. Ritual is a free place to start, and I'm always glad to talk. Book a free 20-minute conversation, no pressure. — Molly