Between loss and grief, there is life.
Between loss and grief, there is life.
And it took me time to accept that.
I’ve studied grief and learned the psychology behind it- everything from the Kübler-Ross model to what I’ve seen with my clients in therapy, and of course, what I’ve experienced myself.
Grief is bottled-up love that can no longer be expressed, either because the person, place, or connection is out of reach - or gone entirely.
I’ve experienced grief throughout my life and often reminded myself that the pain is temporary. But only recently have I truly understood that suffering is an inseparable part of life. It cannot be avoided, and it often shows up when we least expect it.
I never imagined I would be unable to return to my house- my bedroom, my balcony.
This fear, something I never acknowledged before, was unlocked in the past few months.
I grew up hearing stories about war, and I even lived through the 2006 war. Back then, thanks to my still-developing frontal cortex, I mostly remembered the moments of joy: being allowed to eat chocolate, stay up late, and laugh despite the chaos. My memories of the ruins of my home and the rebuilding that followed are like fragmented snapshots—my new room, the one I chose and designed, was the happy ending to the story.
But this time, it’s different.
This time, I not only had to relive the fear, terror, and pain my younger self once endured, but I also found myself navigating a new reality- one where a single notification on my phone could send my fight-or-flight response into spikes.
I found refuge in realizing that every single Lebanese person, and so many others around the world, is going through a similar experience. It normalized my feelings and reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
When the ceasefire was announced, I expected an overwhelming sense of relief.
Instead, I was hit with confusion and unease.
Is that it? Could all this suffering end with just one notification?
What about the pain I endured? The pain of those who are still suffering? The pain of those whose lives will never be the same? Grief still floats- undeniably present in the eyes of everyone I know, and in my own reflection.
‘It takes time’- I reminded myself.
The therapist in me knows this: Grief takes time. Trauma is stored in our bodies. It is normal for agitation to persist until my brain truly believes, ‘It is safe now.’
Still, I didn’t rush to book the first flight home. I didn’t immediately run back to my bedroom. When my mom sent me pictures of our house, I looked at them with mixed emotions- deep gratitude and immense fear.
What if I lose it all again?
This new fear has taken root. How do I live every day with the fear of losing my family, my home, the privilege of returning to my balcony, sipping coffee at 5 a.m., watching the sunrise, or spending a random Wednesday morning with my hunting friend?
And yet, I’ve also learned resilience and how growth can emerge through trauma- a topic I’m currently working on publishing.
I see it in myself and in those around me: the courage to keep showing up, to dream, and to plan for the future, despite the fear of loss.
This deep attachment to the smallest things—the birds that built a nest in my bedroom and annoyed me with their 5 am sounds, my cat jumping onto the dining table and frustrating my mom, calling out to my neighbor, batoul, without needing a phone to invite her for tea - all these moments carry a newfound, deep and real appreciation.
Today, I firmly believe there is strength in suffering. And between loss and grief, there is still life.
Yours truly,
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