Quotes About Grief

Of his entire life, the worst moments had been during the three or four months after Nora had died, when he'd awakened to the heart-constricting knowledge that she wasn't there anymore.

You cannot imagine how much I miss you... The house does not feel the same. I keep feeling that you are here or thinking that I see you. I even think that I can hear you some afternoons...I go out to see... I look for you, but I can't find you. My life is not the same without you.

Nay – whoever submits his whole self to Allah and is a doer of good – he will get his reward with his Lord; on such shall be no fear, nor shall they grieve.

memory of her grief

History dressed up in the glow of love's kiss turned grief into beauty.

Rainbows introduce us to reflections of different beautiful possibilities so we never forget that pain and grief are not the final options in life.

Millions of tears have fallen for black sons, brothers, lovers, and friends whose assailants took or maimed their lives and then simply went on their way.

Journey through the Power of the Rainbow represents a condensed compendium of literary efforts from a life dedicated to transforming the themes of injustice, grief, and despair that we all encounter during some unavoidable point of our existence into a sustainable life-affirming poetics of passionate creativity, empowered spiritual vision, and inspired commitment.

Grief is not a pleasure, but it makes me remember, and I am grateful.

It ended sadly. The kind of ending where you wait together, holding hands and weeping, while off in another room, love slowly dies.

Anger is a luxury. Anger wants answers, retribution, reason, something that makes sense. Anger wants a story, stories help us make sense out of everything. But while we scramble to help those who need it, who has time for anger? Who has time to make sense out of anything? There is only what is. Anger is a distraction. Anger removes me from grief, and the opportunity to be helpful.

Divorce is a death. It is the death of a relationship. It is the death of your dreams. You have to start all over.

There is a point when grief exceeds the human capacity to emote, and as a result one is strangely composed—she had reached that point.

His mother's soul has been dead for years and her body has now followed.

What if, instead of carrying a child, I am supposed to carry grief?

Isn't it funny? How the cold numbs everything but grief. If we could light up the room with pain, we'd be such a glorious fire.

Months later, when we went on our first date, I tried to seem put together, I wore a shawl she had given me. And her ring. I thought everything was behind me: death, and dying, and sickness. I didn't know I was changing my life— that I would have done anything, that what was left of me would become so ruthless to survive.

Poetry is a place where both grief and grace can live, where rage can be explored and examined, not simply exploited.

Humans are so strange in the ways that we are either recovering too quickly from something or holding on to pain forever. There seems to be no middle ground. We bounce back or we wallow. But remembering the hardest moments of grief or loss and letting them be present for you in the good moments is something I've found useful and grounding as I age. It feels like a way of remembering that balance does exist. This too. This grief. This joy. Together always intertwined.

put on the white dress that you had once said made you look like an angel with its real swan feathers and fools gold. Then I sat for a long time in the night and waited. At dawn, I woke with feathers sticky on my tongue and I remembered you were dead all over again.

Still, how the great middle ticker marched on, and from all its four chambers to all its forgiveness, unlocked the sternum's door, reversed and reshaped until it was a new bright carnal species, more accustomed to grief, and ecstatic at the sight of you.

Almost two years had passed once again since his father's death. Hugo remained in the city, pure and strong as a virgin; for the man who harbours a god in his breast will remain untouched by the baseness which the world holds in store.

Her grief has not so much changed her as stripped her down, stripped her body and her face.

She takes another sip of her drink. She looks around the bar. I look at the fine muscles in her neck, at the two points of her clavicle. Her grief has not so much changed her as stripped her down, stripped her body and her face. Maybe she should do what I do. She could stand next to me and the students could draw our lines. I order another bourbon, count the count.