The Grief in the Life You Chose

Grief doesn’t only show up for what ends.

It shows up for what never began.

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t get much airtime. Sometimes it is tied to tragedy or heartbreak, but it doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t always come from something being taken from you. Sometimes, it just lives quietly inside the life you said yes to.

This kind of grief can catch you off guard. You’ll be mowing the lawn, folding laundry, standing for the Star-Spangled Banner. Driving to practice. Showing up for work you genuinely care about. And there it is, that ache. Not because something is wrong, but because something is missing. Or maybe not even missing, just no longer yours.

And the part that makes it so jarring? You didn’t know, at the time, that you were going to miss it. So your attention, your presence, the way you moved through it, wasn’t what you now wish it had been. There was an expiration date on that part of your life that you never knew existed. And now that it’s passed, you’re left feeling the echo of something you loved but didn’t get to properly say goodbye to.

It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. You’re not. You know how lucky you are. You built this life with intention. You made decisions on purpose. But there’s still a soft, persistent sadness that sometimes shows up beside the joy. And if you’re like most people, you’ve been taught to shove that sadness away. To correct yourself mid-thought. To say “but I love my life” as if that should cancel out every complicated feeling.

But what if it doesn’t have to? What if the grief and the gratitude can sit side by side?

Maybe you’re grieving the version of yourself you thought you’d be by now. Or the space you used to take up before your life filled with other people’s needs. Maybe you’re grieving a version of life that had more freedom, more support, or just more you in it.

And maybe that grief is sacred. Not something to fix, but something to honor. Because it says you were here. That you’ve evolved. That something mattered deeply enough to be missed.

My own reckoning with this didn’t come quickly. It took years. Confusing ones. There were seasons where I kept misnaming what I was feeling, calling it stress or burnout or even failure. And there were moments I knew exactly what it was, but the shame was so loud I slammed the lid shut in record time. Olympic speed.

One of my long-standing patterns has been letting things move through that denial stage and then getting hit all at once. I’m more aware of that now. I know it’s part of my default programming, and I attend to it daily. Not to fix it or make it disappear, but to walk with it more gently.

Once I started calling this particular grief what it was, it didn’t magically feel easier, but it did feel less isolating. I wasn’t stacking secret shame on top of something that was already heavy. I was finally making room for my real life.

I do wonder sometimes if I’ve become a little too good at carrying both. At keeping one hand on what I’m missing while still moving forward. Because how we do one thing is often how we do other things, and maybe I’ve gotten used to holding tension like it’s normal. But for now, I’m not judging that. I’m just noticing it. And trusting that the way I move through things slowly, honestly, sometimes messily is still a way forward. And it’s mine.

This kind of grief isn’t contained to one area. It doesn’t knock politely. It seeps. Into motherhood. Into marriage. Into work and ambition. Into the way I show up, or don’t, for myself.

It’s there when I get quiet about my own needs because someone else’s feel louder.
It’s in the rush to keep moving because slowing down might mean feeling it all.
It’s in the to-do list I never finish, the creativity I keep on the back burner, the conversations I don’t start because I’m not sure I can carry what might come up.

It’s even in joy. Because sometimes when something is really good, the ache gets louder. Like a reminder of the parts that didn’t make it to this chapter with me.

But now I know what it is. I don’t run from it. I don’t shame it.
I fold it in.

And I’ve seen it show up in some of the most personal corners of my life.
The kind of grief that doesn’t always ask permission, but still moves in.
The kind that reshapes how you see what’s possible, and what might never be.

There’s also a more personal layer to this grief, one that’s been unfolding quietly for years.

My daughter Harlow has Down syndrome. And while it’s not impossible, it’s extremely rare for women with Down syndrome to have children of their own. That’s not something I thought about when I became a mother. You dream about first steps, first words, maybe even weddings someday. But you don’t imagine the dreams your child may never get to dream. Not until you're standing in that truth.

Harlow will likely never get to experience what I’ve felt. She may never carry a child. And I will likely never be a grandmother to her children.

It’s the kind of loss that doesn’t land in a single moment. It lingers. It shows up quietly. Like when her sister wonders out loud what Harlow’s kids will be like. There’s no dramatic moment. No meltdown. Just a softness in your chest that spreads. A knowing that sits quietly in the corners of your life. Some things she won’t get to have. And I won’t get to witness.

This isn’t about pity. It’s about truth. About naming what’s real. Letting the sadness have a seat at the table beside the joy.

Because grief doesn’t only show up for what ends. It shows up for what never began.

And then there’s the grief that comes from what others will likely never get to experience.

The thought of my father never getting to watch my kids be kids. Never seeing them do the little things I know would light up the dark places in him. It’s its own kind of ache. Because I believe those moments could have healed something. In him. In me. In all of us.

He is still living, but the version of him who could fully take those moments in may never arrive. And that’s a different kind of grief. One that doesn't come with closure, just quiet acceptance over time.

I will have to grieve him in ways I never expected. While he’s still here. While I still hope. While I still carry love for all the parts of him that never had space to grow.

And still, I love him. And I love my kids. And I love myself through it all.

This isn’t about regret. It’s about making space for both truths. That your life is beautiful and that it cost you something. That choosing one path means releasing another. That growing into who you are now required letting go of who you were, or who you thought you’d become.

There’s healing in letting yourself name the loss without rushing to justify it.
There’s power in saying,

I love my life. And I still feel the ache of everything it took to build it.

That’s not weakness. That’s awareness. That’s capacity. That’s healing.

And still
I laugh loudly. I love deeply. I work on purpose. I show up when it counts. I rest when I can. I’ve built something real here. And every piece of it is mine.

My best friend lost her mom years ago, but also yesterday.
We talk a lot about how grief and joy both seem to be on the guest list for every event in her life.

For a long time, grief RSVP’d yes. Showed up early. Took the front seat. Joy didn’t always make it. Or when she did, she stayed in the corner, quiet.

But lately, joy’s been showing up more. Wearing color. Laughing loud. Grief still comes too.

Maybe one day, grief will reply no. But she knows, and I know, they’ll always both be invited.

Alyson has let me witness all of it. Not because she tried to show me how but because she let me in. And being alongside her grief gave me quiet permission to feel my own.

Not perform it. Not package it. Just feel it.

Because of her, I didn’t feel alone in mine. And that changed something in me I didn’t even know needed changing.

I hope in sharing this,I might be your Al. Or help you notice the version of her
already sitting quietly in your circle, ready to let you in, too.