Grief, Guilt and the Things We Carry

Looking back, I don't think grief was the hardest thing for me to carry. It was the guilt that came with it. The guilt of laughing, of having fun, of slowly forgetting small details and of continuing to live when the people I loved no longer could. It took me years to understand that those are not the same thing.

When I was around seven years old, an elderly uncle from our neighborhood passed away. I didn't understand death then. To me, it was just another evening.

At 6 PM, I switched on the TV to watch my favorite cartoon. My aunt immediately scolded me.

"How can you watch TV when someone has died?"

I asked, "But we're not even related. Why can't I watch TV?"

The question was dismissed, but the lesson stayed. Somewhere along the way, I learned that grief meant giving up joy.

A few years later, when I was twelve, my Nani passed away.

She was my favorite person. Every weekend was spent at her house. She made my favorite achappams and puri-shrikhand, helped me with school projects, and always had a few rupees ready for a kulfi.

When she died, I didn't know how to react. Everyone around me was crying. I cried too, but mostly I felt numb.

All I could think about were the little things that would never happen again. Who would help me with my projects? Who would give me ₹5 for a kulfi? Who would make achappams like hers?

Six months later, my Nana passed away too.

And without realizing it, I began carrying grief in a way that became a burden. Every time I laughed, I felt guilty. Every time I enjoyed myself, I felt guilty. If I went too long without thinking about my grandparents, I felt guilty.

I believed that sadness was proof of love.

For years, I worried about forgetting. Sometimes I would panic because I couldn't clearly remember my Nani's voice. Sometimes I felt ashamed that certain memories were fading.

It wasn't until therapy that I understood what had happened.

That childhood lesson had stayed with me for years. I had learned that grief and joy could not exist together.

But they can.

Moving forward is not the same as forgetting. Being happy does not mean you loved someone less. Remembering someone is not measured by how often you feel sad.

Today, I still try to remember my grandparents' voices, their smiles, and the comfort of being with them. Some memories are clear, others have softened with time.

And maybe that's okay.

What remains is the love.

If there is one thing I have learned, it is this:

You are allowed to miss people and still be happy.

You are allowed to move forward without leaving them behind.

And you are allowed to carry grief without carrying guilt.