What Grief Actually Looks Like (And Why You’re Not Doing It Wrong)

There’s no right way to grieve—only your way.

Grief isn’t tidy. It doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t arrive with instructions. And it certainly doesn’t look the same from one person to the next.

But when you’re in the thick of it—especially after the loss of a baby—it’s easy to wonder: “Am I doing this right?” “Shouldn’t I be better by now?” “Why does it still hurt so much?”

Let’s clear something up right now: You are not doing it wrong. There is no wrong way to grieve what you loved deeply.

Grief Doesn’t Look Like the Movies

Grief isn’t always sobbing in a dark room. Sometimes it’s screaming in the car. Sometimes it’s laughing at a meme and feeling guilty right after. Sometimes it’s forgetting for a moment—and then feeling crushed by the remembering.

You might feel numb. You might feel angry. You might feel nothing at all.

That’s still grief.

Grief is not one emotion. It’s all of them. Jumbled. Layered. Repeating.

It’s Okay If You...

• Cry in the grocery store aisle

• Feel triggered by a baby shower invite

• Can’t look at their photos yet

• Talk to them in your head

• Feel fine one day and shattered the next

It’s okay if your grief doesn’t look like someone else’s. It’s okay if you’re still grieving years later. It’s okay if you never stop missing them.

Grief Is Not Linear

You’ve probably heard it before, but it bears repeating: Grief doesn’t move in a straight line.

You might feel like you're healing one week, then fall apart the next. That doesn’t mean you’re “backsliding.” It means you’re human. Grief loops. It spirals. It revisits.

Every wave is a reminder of how much you loved.

There Is No Timeline

There is no “getting over it.” There is only learning to live with it. Grief becomes part of who you are—not something to “finish.”

You may always feel a space where your baby should be. That space doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you remember.

You Are Not Doing It Wrong

Whatever your grief looks like—it belongs. If you’re quiet or loud, still or restless, open or private—You are still grieving. You are still loving.

You are allowed to take your time. You are allowed to grieve in your way. You are allowed to be exactly where you are.