Grief is a Strange But Natural Companion.
It’s one I didn’t ask for, yet one that lingers as if I keep inviting it back.
Some days, it feels real, a weight pressing against my ribs. Other times, I catch myself wondering if I’m manufacturing it, pulling it forward like a magician performing a trick only for myself. Am I choosing to hurt? Am I holding onto sorrow simply because it’s familiar?
Society certainly doesn’t make it easier. Everywhere I turn, I’m told to move on, to heal, to chase happiness like it’s the only legitimate state of being. Grief, in contrast, is treated as an intruder—something to push aside, something to outgrow. But does joy truly exist in opposition to pain? Maybe they live together, intertwined, neither diminishing the other but rather giving it shape.
Marcus Aurelius would likely call grief a natural occurrence, neither good nor bad, just what is (I just happen to be reading Marcus Aurelius’ “Meditations: A New Translation” so that’s why I mention him). He’d remind me that sorrow, like joy, is fleeting, a ripple in the vast current of existence. He’d tell me that suffering stems not from loss itself, but from my own resistance to reality. The pain I think I’m conjuring? Perhaps it's not a fabrication, but my mind trying to make sense of something inevitable. Perhaps it’s not wrong to feel, nor wrong to let it pass.
A modern Stoic might approach joy in grief as a matter of perspective—an acceptance of loss, not as something to be avoided, but as an integral part of existence. To them, grief wouldn’t be an obstacle to joy but a reminder of love, of meaning, of the impermanence that makes life precious.
They’d likely say: You suffer because you cared. You grieve because something mattered to you. And instead of resisting sorrow, they’d urge you to embrace it—without letting it control you. Pain doesn’t need to be an enemy, nor does joy need to be its opposite. A Stoic would remind you that emotions are transient, neither good nor bad in themselves, but simply experiences passing through.
Aurelius wrote, Do not be disturbed by your feelings, but subject them to reason. This doesn’t mean ignoring grief or forcing happiness—it means finding purpose within sorrow, seeing it as a teacher rather than a burden. A modern Stoic might ask: What does your grief reveal about what you value? If you loved deeply, if you lost something that shaped you, then grief is not failure. It’s proof that you lived fully.
Instead of mourning only what was lost, they’d encourage gratitude for what was. They might even suggest that joy and grief can coexist—that in the depths of sorrow, we might still find moments of beauty, warmth, and understanding. After all, if grief is a reflection of love, then perhaps joy isn’t found after pain but within it.
Joy and grief aren’t opposing forces; they weave through each other in ways we don’t always expect. Grief carries sorrow, but it also holds traces of love, memory, and meaning—and within those, joy can exist.
Think about the moments when sadness softens into reflection. Maybe it’s in recalling a loved one’s laugh, a shared experience, or the sheer fact that someone mattered enough to leave an absence. That ache is real, but so is the gratitude for having had something worth missing.
Joy in grief isn’t about "moving on" or ignoring the pain; it’s about acknowledging that sorrow can deepen appreciation. Losing something reminds us of what we valued, what shaped us, and what remains within us despite absence. And in that awareness, joy quietly emerges—not in opposition to grief, but within it.
Sometimes, the most profound joy comes from knowing grief isn’t just suffering—it’s proof of connection, of meaning. It’s in letting sorrow exist without shame, without the pressure to erase it, knowing that joy and pain don’t cancel each other out. They coexist, shaping our understanding of life in ways that make both emotions more vivid.
If grief is a choice, then so is allowing it to exist without shame. I won’t pit sorrow against happiness, nor will I exile my pain for the sake of appearing better. Instead, I’ll sit with it, knowing it’s neither my enemy nor my master—just a part of the rhythm of being human.
