Grief, Loss, and the Metamorphosis of Love
Grief often shows up unannounced. Whether it’s the death of a loved one or the loss of a relationship while the person is still alive, one can never be fully ready for it. Does it ever go away?
Sometimes I think of it like this: if love is the caterpillar, then grief is the painful cocoon of metamorphosis. Love, in the absence of the person, has nowhere to go. It folds in on itself, dissolves, and becomes something unrecognizable. And the butterfly? The butterfly is what love becomes after grief has done its work - wiser, freer, no longer bound by form, able to take flight in a new way.
Is loss through death different from the loss of someone who is alive (through separation, estrangement, illness, memory loss, etc.)? Is grief experienced differently in those two cases? Do we truly lose a person without death? While grief is not a competition - mine is bigger than yours, yours is smaller than mine - people often say the grief for someone who is still alive, but no longer with us in the same way, is more complex. This is because living absence keeps the wound open: hope, longing, unfinished conversations, and uncertainty linger, making the grief ongoing and unresolved.
Yet when I sit with it, I see that both kinds of grief share the same root: love transformed. With death, absence feels permanent. With the living, absence is more complicated, tangled with longing and hope. But both force us to face impermanence. Both ask us to release the form we once knew, and to find the butterfly - the love that continues in a different way.
Grief is love that has nowhere to go.
I know little about death, and I know a little about loss. And I know that while the day-to-day of life tries hard to pull us away from feeling all the feelings, I refuse to surrender. I also refuse to romanticize it. I choose to sit with it and see it for what it is - in all its complexity.
How do we hold loss with tenderness? How do we tend to the absence of those who are no longer present, whether through death or estrangement, in a way that balances remembrance, understanding, and self-compassion? How do we support the ones left behind in their grief?
In my own search for answers, I return to the same places I’ve leaned on for all forms of suffering in life: the wisdom of my mindfulness teacher, Thích Nhất Hạnh, and the spiritual practice of yoga. Both traditions do not claim to remove grief or erase death, but they offer ways of seeing that soften its edges.
From Thích Nhất Hạnh, I’ve learned that death is not an ending, but a transformation. Just as a cloud becomes rain or mist, a loved one becomes part of us in new ways. If we spent time with them, if we collected memories with them, we carry them with us in our decisions, our way of speaking and walking, and our very way of being. When we drink a cup of tea, we can remember the clouds, the rain, and the loved ones who helped shape us. Grief softens when we see that absence is not total absence - it is presence in another form.
From Yoga, I’ve learned that who we truly are is not just this body or mind, but the Self - the eternal consciousness that does not die. Grief, in this light, is deeply connected to attachment (rāga) - the desire for things or people to stay the same when reality has already shifted. Suffering (duḥkha) often arises from this clinging. Yoga reminds us that all forms are temporary (anitya). Relationships, like bodies, shift and transform. Through the practice of vairāgya (non-attachment), we learn not to stop loving, but to release the rigid expectations of how things were or how they “should” be.
On a soul level, the essence of a person remains untouched by circumstance. Even if their role in our life changes, or if they no longer recognize us due to illness or estrangement, their essence (ātman) remains whole - and so does ours. Yoga also offers practical support: through meditation, mantra, and asana, we can process grief in body and mind, cultivating presence and compassion rather than getting stuck in longing for what cannot return.
While no one alive can fully understand grief, loss, and death, these two sources of wisdom make me believe that grief comes into our lives to teach us about the impermanence of this body, to show us how love and attachment transform, and to guide us toward a deeper understanding of what endures.
Taken together, these traditions remind me that grief has its rightful place in life. Tears, longing, and remembrance are part of love. But they also invite me to expand my vision: to see death not only as a rupture but also as a continuation, not only as an ending but also as a transformation.
When the loss is through death, we may feel comfort in carrying our loved one’s presence forward in how we live - walking, speaking, and breathing with traces of their love. But when the loss is through estrangement or harm, embodying them may not feel right. In such cases, what we carry forward is different: sometimes it is the strength or clarity the experience gave us, sometimes simple remembrance, and sometimes - if our hearts allow it - forgiveness. The butterfly of that grief does not always look like the person themselves; often, it looks like the wisdom, freedom, or compassion we grew in their absence.
Perhaps the best way to honor those we’ve lost - through death or living absence - is to live with awareness, compassion, and courage. To support one another through grief not with quick answers or feel-good conversations, but by creating space for it with presence, patience, and love.
One may leave the body, but their way of being stays with the people they shared their time and heart with. Another may still be alive, but their absence reshapes us in equal measure. In both cases, love undergoes its metamorphosis. And the butterfly - whether it takes the shape of remembrance, forgiveness, or wisdom - reminds us that love is never truly lost.
