Grieving by Allowing the Discomfort to Be There

The past few weeks have been all about saying goodbye. My father passed away suddenly, and the first days felt unreal. While there were many practical things to arrange, sadness and disbelief kept blending together. By now, a sense of calm has returned. The grief is still there, but it’s less sharp. And somewhere in that process, I learned something I often tell others—but this time I experienced it myself: that it’s okay to let discomfort be there.

Grief can feel awkward. You don’t always know what you need, or how you’re “supposed” to feel. There are moments when I’m sad, and others when I just want to keep going. Both are equally real. What strikes me is how differently people deal with loss. I often hear: “Take your time.” Or: “You’re brave for showing up.” Kind words, but for me, grieving doesn’t mean sitting still. I also need conversations, reflection, and things that keep my mind active.

I notice that I’m getting to know two sides of myself even better.
On the one hand, my introverted side—the part that needs time to process, to think, and to be quiet. That side seeks calm, structure, and familiar things.
On the other hand, my gifted side—the part that learns quickly, adapts easily, and craves mental stimulation. When I stay home too long without something to engage my mind, I become restless.

That combination means I don’t really fit the stereotype of someone in mourning. I do need space, but not necessarily emptiness. It helps me to stay engaged with things that feel meaningful: talking with others, writing, exploring new ideas. Not as a way to escape, but as a way to stay connected to life.

Finding that balance isn’t always easy. Some days I can focus well; other days my energy is low. But that’s part of it. I try to judge myself less for what I “should” be doing. There’s no right or wrong pace.

Discomfort

In my work, I often use ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy). It’s not about getting rid of unpleasant feelings, but about acknowledging and allowing them without letting them take over. Not fighting what’s there, but relating to it differently.

These past weeks, I’ve had to apply that to myself again. Grief can’t be scheduled or predicted. Sometimes it comes suddenly, right in the middle of something ordinary—a song, a sentence, a memory. And sometimes it’s quiet for days.

My first instinct is to analyze, to understand what exactly is happening. That’s in my nature. But I’ve realized that it’s not necessary. It helps more to simply notice: this is what’s here right now. Without judgment.

Sometimes that means doing nothing for a while, or writing a few lines. Sometimes it’s having a conversation, or going for a walk. By not making it bigger than it is, it stays manageable.

Life Lessons

My father was a calm thinker. He liked to look at things from different angles and enjoyed analyzing, but always with a smile. He thought things through carefully, yet could also put them into perspective.
“Getting a six is good enough,” he once said when I was working too hard as a student.

That sentence has been echoing in my mind lately. It was his way of saying: it doesn’t have to be perfect. Do what matters, but don’t forget to live.

He taught me that thinking deeply is valuable, but that it’s also okay to stop thinking sometimes—to trust what feels right without overanalyzing it. That’s a lesson I’m relearning now.

I recognize his calmness in myself, and also his tendency to want to understand everything. The difference is that I now know better when to let go.

Moving Forward

Slowly, a new rhythm is emerging. I’m working part-time again, having coaching sessions, preparing things, and also taking time to pause. It feels good to do what I love again, even if it’s at a gentler pace.

I’ve realized that grieving doesn’t mean stopping everything. For some people that works, but not for me. I draw energy from meaningful conversations and from the sense of contributing something. It gives me direction, structure, and stability.

That doesn’t mean the grief is gone. It’s still there, but different now—less like a wave that overwhelms me, more like a soft ripple that reminds me of what matters.

I know now that grief doesn’t disappear; it changes. It walks alongside you, in the background, not always present but never gone. And that’s okay.

Honest

I expected grief to feel heavy, but it feels mostly honest. There’s no mask, no need for beautiful words. It brings things back to their essence. What truly matters remains; what was noise fades away.

I’ve also become gentler—with myself and with others. Less quick to judge, less in a hurry. That might be the most unexpected gift of this time: that loss doesn’t just take something away, it also gives something back.

My father taught me to think things through, but also not to take life too seriously.
He knew that life goes on, with all its small discomforts, jokes, and imperfections. That attitude helps me now. I don’t need to force anything. I can do it in my own way.

No Right or Wrong

What I’m learning in these weeks is that there isn’t one right way to grieve. Some people need silence, others activity. Some withdraw, others reach out.

There’s no right or wrong, as long as it fits who you are. For me, it’s a mix of both: rest and thought, stillness and movement, sadness and acceptance. It’s about finding a new balance—and that can happen in phases, with pauses, stumbles, and smiles along the way.

Or, as my father would say: Getting a six is good enough.