My grief has a monster: The losses we carry and the life that still calls us

What if grief were a monster? What would it look like? Where would it live? And what would it say if it could speak?

I've been thinking about grief lately, and I've come to realize that grief isn't always about losing someone we love. Sometimes it's about losing pieces of ourselves, the lives we imagined, the independence we once had, and the things we thought would always be part of our future.

For me, grief has many faces.

My grief monster was born the day my life split into before and after. Cancer took my left leg in 2010, and with it came the loss of a familiar body, a certain kind of independence, and the life I had known. It grew stronger with every cancer recurrence, every disappointment, and every goodbye to something I couldn't get back.

But it didn't stop there.

Over the years, it collected other losses: loneliness, unanswered calls, broken connections, missed opportunities, transportation challenges, and the frustration of wanting to participate in life while sometimes feeling confined by circumstances beyond my control.

My grief monster is a shapeshifter. Sometimes it looks like a dark shadow following me around. Sometimes it's a heavy creature sitting on my chest. Other times, it's a voice reminding me of everything I used to do, everything I've lost, and everything that feels just out of reach.

And being an amputee means grief can be physical, too.

It isn't always something I can think my way through. Sometimes it feels like heaviness, exhaustion, tension, or an ache that has no easy explanation. My body carries memories of what happened, what changed, and what I continue to navigate.

There is grief for the limb I lost, but there is also grief for the life that changed afterward. And sometimes the losses that hurt most aren't visible to anyone else.

People may see someone who has adapted, learned to walk with a prosthesis, survived cancer, and kept going. They may see strength. What they don't always see is the emotional work that happens behind the scenes.

Because surviving something doesn't mean you stop grieving it.

If grief could speak

I imagine my grief monster sitting across from me, telling me all the things it wants me to believe.

Grief says:

You will never be who you were before.

You have lost too much.

Look at everything you can no longer do.

You're missing out on life.

You're alone.

You should be further along by now.

But life has something to say, too.

Life says:

You don't have to be who you were before.

You are still becoming.

Look at everything you've survived.

There is still life waiting to be experienced.

You are worthy of connection and belonging.

There is no deadline for healing.

You can miss what was and still welcome what is.

The things my grief monster doesn't know

My grief monster knows my history, but it doesn't know my whole story.

It knows about cancer, amputation, independence lost, and the disappointments that have accumulated along the way. It knows about the days when I feel isolated and the times when life seems smaller than I want it to be.

But it doesn't know everything.

It doesn't know about the faith that has carried me, the courage I've had to find within myself, or the determination that keeps pushing me to learn, write, grow, and contribute.

It doesn't know about the friendships and connections that remind me I'm not invisible. It doesn't know about the dreams I still have or the possibilities I haven't discovered.

Most importantly, it doesn't understand that I can grieve and still be grateful. I can miss my old life and still appreciate the life I have. I can acknowledge that something hurts without allowing that pain to become my entire identity.

Learning to live alongside grief

Maybe the goal isn't to defeat the grief monster or pretend it doesn't exist.

Maybe it's learning to recognize it when it shows up, understanding what it is trying to tell us, and refusing to let it make every decision.

Grief deserves a voice, but it doesn't deserve the final word.

Some days, grief will be louder than life. Some days, getting through the day will be enough. And other days, life will surprise us with a reason to laugh, something new to learn, a meaningful conversation, or an opportunity we didn't see coming.

I am learning that both can exist at the same time.

I can carry grief without carrying shame. I can acknowledge my losses without living entirely in them. And I can honor the person I was while continuing to make room for the person I am becoming.

My grief monster has an origin story, but it doesn't get to write the ending.

Because I am still here. I am still growing. I am still becoming. And there is still a life worth living beyond everything I've lost.

Words by: Movao Champion, Kim Ousley