The Grief of Losing Who You Were

There’s a kind of grief we don’t often talk about.

It doesn’t come with a clear moment of loss, like when you lose a loved one, and there’s no ritual around it. No one necessarily recognizes it from the outside, and yet it can shape how we move through life from a certain point on—quietly, but in significant ways.

Recently, I met with a dear friend at the Bragg Creek Bakery and Cafe—one of those cozy places in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, where you instantly feel at home. A friendly smile, a “how’s the kids,” and the smell of fresh coffee and homemade baking in the air.

We sat down and started chatting, and as sometimes happens when you’re with someone you feel safe and connected with, the conversation naturally drifted into parts of our past we don’t often speak about out loud.

As we talked, it became clear that we had both been carrying experiences that had stayed with us in ways that are hard to fully put into words. Let alone share with others.

At one point, we were simply sitting there, crying together.

Then we hugged—sharing a kind of understanding that didn’t need much explanation.

In that moment, my friend put some wise words to what we were both feeling.

It wasn’t just sadness.

It was grief.

Grief for the loss of innocence.

Grief for losing who we were before certain experiences happened.

The version of ourselves that could feel safe, open, and trusting. I guess, young and innocent. We all lose our innocence at some point in life. But when that loss comes through experiences that felt unsafe or confusing at the time, it can leave a different kind of imprint.

It made me realize how little space there is for this kind of recognition.

Often, we’re encouraged—directly or indirectly—to just move on. To stay strong. To tell ourselves it wasn’t that bad, and to keep going.

But not acknowledging the hurt doesn’t make it go away.

It tends to stay with us, sometimes triggering us in ways we don’t always fully understand.

We often think that, with time, the pain will simply get smaller.

But maybe that’s not quite what happens.

As David Kessler writes, “The pain doesn’t get smaller. We grow around it.”

The memory may still be there, but it no longer fills the same amount of space. Over time, there can be room again—for connection, for meaning, and even for moments of lightness.

Before we left the café, my friend and I hugged again.

And this time, we found ourselves laughing as well.

There was still tenderness, but also a sense of lightness that came from not holding it on our own.

And perhaps that’s part of it.

Not necessarily fixing or changing what happened—but allowing it to be seen, shared, and understood in a way it may never have been before.

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