How to Be in the Hues of Grief

Atma Namaste,

With another December comes another reminder of the year that’s slipped by, time that feels like a blink, and my dad, who chose 31st December to leave Mother Earth — fitting for a man known for his legendary New Year parties. So today’s post is dedicated to the three men of my life — Daddum (our dad), Casper, and Spooky — who filled our days with joy through their presence and continue to guide our creativity through their absence.

Casper was our elder pup. He was born, it seemed, for the sole purpose of bringing us joy, peace, patience, and the reminder to slow down. When he passed on, life shifted for all of us, but it hit Daddum the hardest. For years, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about Casper. That kind of grief changes you — when it lingers in every conversation, colours your days, and quietly builds walls inside you.

And then, Daddum left his physical body. The invincible wall of our lives was gone. It would take time for us to realise that the wall hadn’t vanished — it had only changed form. But in that moment, we were confused, angry, shocked, and overwhelmed. The loss was tangible — in the silences, in the stillness of the house... when home still looked like home, but didn’t feel quite like it.

During this time, Spooky, our younger pup, became our light. He followed us, especially Aai, gently bringing his glow into our darkened rooms — as if to guide us back toward peace. When he, too, left, my life changed in ways I still find hard to name. 

Spooky was this ball of energy. Fiercely protective of his loved ones (right till the last day), didn't know the concept of giving up, and had mastered the art of forgiveness and moving on. I often say this — Casper made me a mother, and Spooky expanded it in ways I never knew were possible.

The loss of a life your own has been orbiting around for years leaves you directionless. But by then, I had had time — time to sit with the grief, time to notice what it was teaching me. And the most important lesson it left behind was that of forgiveness.

Grief is a complex, primal experience. Born from a deep sense of lack, it clings to the past, aches for the present, and fears the future. It’s a full-body, sensory experience — one that plays tricks on your memory and distorts your perception of the present. Everything feels so intense when you're in it, and somehow far away when you look back later. This overstimulation — sometimes disguised as numbness — is rarely spoken about.

I’m no expert in grief. Life shows us all glimpses of it, and I am no different. What I share here is not expertise, but the raw experiences I’ve had the chance to learn from.

When a loved one is no longer with us, we often — sometimes unknowingly — lean on the people around us to hold us up, even if just a little. These expectations are natural, but they can be heavy, especially for those who haven’t experienced similar grief. What follows are honest, harmless misunderstandings that can shift the course of our relationships without either side intending it.

There’s no right way to navigate that space, but perhaps we can try not to take everything to heart. Not because our grief is too much — it isn’t — but because the world may not always know how to meet it. And still, support may be present in its own quiet, imperfect ways.

After my father passed, a close friend compared my grief to the struggles of moving to a new city — not knowing the language, dealing with cultural shifts, starting over. I remember, even in that moment, finding the comparison almost laughable. It was surreal to think that the loss of someone so deeply rooted in my life could be equated with a chosen relocation.

But now, as I reflect, I see it differently. We all hold different emotional capacities at different points in our lives. These capacities are fluid — they don’t always reflect the size of the situation, but rather how we allow it to shape us.

Honouring these capacities is what makes space for forgiveness — and it is through that space that compassion can begin to grow.

It’s surprisingly easy to forgive those who’ve left us. In the face of death, the small things often fall away. But what about those who are still here? The ones we continue to live with, love, and misunderstand? Forgiving them — and seeking forgiveness from them — is what makes room for love, support, and compassion to grow. There will always be people who feel their journey is more difficult, more complex, more painful — and in their own way, they may be right. Because we’re all carrying different capacities at any given moment.

We’re all on a journey that slowly, gently stretches us. And as we hold each other with tenderness, we begin to notice our capacity grow.

Sometimes, just knowing we’re not alone — even in silence — can be enough to soften the sharpest edges of grief. It’s not about having the right words or perfect timing, but about presence.

If someone you love is grieving, support them in the way they need — not in the way that feels most natural to you. Grief is slow, sacred, and deeply personal. Support doesn’t always mean walking beside them; sometimes, it’s as simple as saying, “I’m here if and when you need me.”

Let’s be mindfully compassionate — not by throwing relationships into the deep end and hoping they float, but by building steadier bridges. That’s how we build stronger families, more honest friendships, and a world that knows how to hold grief with grace.

And if you're grieving, I hope you know your experience is valid, even when the world doesn’t quite know how to meet it.

Till next time,

Love,

Arundhati