Mourning People Who Haven’t Died

Before you read, a few songs accompanied me while writing. While this is not a long article, they reflect the emotions behind these words and any can be played while reading:

Back To The Old House – The Smiths

Reflections – The Neighbourhood

Let Down – Radiohead

i don’t know you anymore – Sombr

Sparks – Coldplay

End of Beginning –  Djo

Sore Throat –  Malcolm Todd

There is a particular kind of grief that no one prepares you for; the kind reserved for people who are still breathing. There’s no place you can bring flowers. No obituary to read. No funeral to attend. They’re still posting, still laughing, still living their life and all you have are the memories of the person you once knew them as. 

We’ve been taught to associate grief with death, that in order to mourn there needs to be a body, a funeral, a moment to get our closure. But there’s no warning or preparation for losses that don’t receive the same attention: the friends that I’ve lost connection with time, the parent who was my everything until my teenage years, the boy I once loved. 

It’s strange to miss people who are still accessible. I could text them, call them, even run into them by chance. But then I remember that they are not the person I once felt at home with. All I can do is reminisce on the moments I’ve experienced with them, the jokes told, the pictures taken and the laughs shared. Then, you come to the realization that people change, grow, harden or avoid. Sometimes they evolve into a person we no longer align ourselves with. Sometimes we ourselves are the ones who change. And that’s when it clicks: they’re no longer accessible. 

There are times I feel embarrassed to admit that I mourn the people mentioned. They’re no longer in my life for a reason yet I can’t help myself but to think of all the times we’ve shared, to look back at old pictures, to visit the places we went together. There are even times where I feel guilty, sometimes responsible, as if I’m the reason there’s the distance between us. I think of what I could have done to keep these people close. Maybe I could’ve called more or visited them more often. Or maybe, just maybe, we had our time to experience each other. 

But I think what persists more in my mind is not just the fact that I’m mourning someone I once knew, I mourn their potential. I mourn a future that could have been, the milestones they could’ve witnessed, the role I wish they played just a little longer. There is a particular ache in grieving what never happened. It is not only the loss of who they were, but the loss of who they might have become. The apologies that were never spoken. The growth that might have softened things. The reconnection I sometimes imagined in quiet moments. Perhaps the most painful part of all of this is the lack of closure. With death, at least, it offers some form of it. Change does not provide such mercy. There’s no line drawn, no ceremony to mark the shift, no clear ending. The people I mourn still exist out there, they’re just no longer people I recognize and their absence somehow feels both invisible and enormous.

Despite this, I learned that there is nothing wrong with missing someone. Missing them does not make you weak or stuck in the past; it reflects the depth of your capacity to care and acknowledge that they touched your life in a meaningful way. And I never want to be perceived as someone who didn’t care. I want to be perceived as a girl who’s loved, who’s lost, and who’s conquered. 

But I do mourn someone who has died. Me. I mourn the girl I was yesterday, the girl I was last week, the girl I was last month, even the girl I was a year ago. For there are aspects of myself that have changed due to the people I’ve experienced, good and bad. Don’t take this the wrong way, I am forever grateful for the people I now mourn.They’ve shaped me into who I am today, and though parts of me have changed, I honor every version that brought me here.

I like to think that grieving people who still live is part of what it means to be human. Each and every one of us are constantly evolving, whether it’s noticeable or subtle. I’ve learned that not every relationship is meant to last in the same form forever. Some form temporarily, some foundational for other relationships we’ll eventually come across. And some teach us who we are, give us a sense of self, then fade. 

Love and loss are not opposites. In fact, they coexist. You can love someone deeply and still mourn who they used to be. I’ve learned to appreciate every relationship I’ve been fortunate enough to experience despite the pain they’ve caused. 

For I am a mosaic of everyone I once knew and loved. 

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