Quotes About Grief

Do not allow the pain of loss, to stop the process of living.

One can't share happiness if not felt. One can't live happily if happiness is unexpressed. Through life contentment is searched for often ending in grief but in mirror's happiness asked for you find at every blink.

Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them.

Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible.

Death ends a life, not a relationship.

There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.

It is amazing the things you realize when you lose someone: you get mad at yourself for not saying the things you could have a million times, you take for granted the days spent doing nothing when you could have been with them. Anyone can be taken, at any time in our lives, but we always wait until they are gone to say the things we never had the courage to before.

Death does not discriminate; Some die old, some at 8. So remember during all your grief, our visit here is very brief.

Nobody gets through life without losing someone they love, someone they need, or something they thought was meant to be. But it is these losses that make us stronger and eventually move us toward future opportunities.

I'm so sorry for not being there for you.. When you needed someone, the most. At your last time, your breathed.

You killed what was left of the good in me. I'm tired so let me be broken. Look down at the mess that's in front of me. No other words needs to be spoken.

I'm gonna sit alone in a quiet room and cry until I cant cry no more. I am tired of all the pain inside and I am tired of all the tears falling from my eyes.

She was genuinely fond of us; she would have enjoyed the long luxury of weeping for our untimely decease;

But never again would I be able to erase that contraction from her face, or that suffering from her heart, or, rather, from my own; for, since the dead exist only in us, it is ourselves that we strike unrelentingly when we persist in remembering the blows we have dealt them. I clung to these sorrows, however cruel they might be, with all my strength, for I felt that they were the effect of my memory of my grandmother, the proof that this memory which I had was indeed present in me.

The dead last so short a time … Alas, in the coffin they crumble into dust, Less quickly than in our hearts!

it was only at that moment—more than a year after her burial, because of the anachronism which so often prevents the calendar of facts from corresponding to the calendar of feelings—that I became conscious that she was dead.

And grief is as potent in altering reality as is drunkenness

Sadness had reigned in undisputed sovereignty over his shadowed childhood.

This calm which I had just enjoyed was the first apparition of that great intermittent force which was to wage war in me against grief, against love, and would ultimately get the better of them.

M. Verdurin replied in a hasty tone and with an embittered groan, not of grief but of irritated impatience: "Why yes, of course, but what's to be done about it, it's no use crying over spilt milk, talking about him won't bring him back to life, will it?

thus, in a wild desire to hurl myself into her arms, it was only at this instant—more than a year after her funeral, on account of the anachronism which so often prevents the calendar of facts from coinciding with that of our feelings—that I had just learned she was dead.

When we are suffering, the only words that touch us are the words of those who have known the person we loved and who can recall him to us.

Of the state of mind which, in that far off year, had been simply an unending torture to me, nothing survived. For there is in this world in which everything wears out, everything perishes, one thing that crumbles into dust, that destroys itself still more completely, leaving behind still fewer traces of itself than Beauty: namely Grief.

I had not yet reached this stage. At one time it was my memory made more clear by some intellectual excitement — such as reading a book — which revived my grief, at other times it was on the contrary my grief — when it was aroused, for instance, by the anguish of a spell of stormy weather — which raised higher, brought nearer to the light, some memory of our love.