Grieving My Old Self (and Everyone I’ve Lost Along the Way)

Grief isn’t only about losing someone we love. Sometimes, it’s about losing ourselves, the version we used to know so well.

The day my AVM ruptured, the person I had been for years died quietly. My body kept breathing, but my life as I knew it was gone. I lost the version of me who could run without thinking, speak without searching for words, and remember things without lists and alarms.

I miss her like I would miss a best friend. I miss the ease she had, the way she trusted her body, the way she could just be without overthinking every move. I miss her laugh before fear got in the way. I miss the lightness she carried without even realizing it.

Now, I live in a body that’s both a miracle and a stranger. Every day I’m reminded that my survival came with a cost. People tell me, “At least you survived.” And yes, I am grateful, deeply, fiercely grateful. But gratitude doesn’t cancel grief. They can live in the same heart without negating each other. Some days I celebrate this second chance. Some days I ache for the first version of me.

And while I’ve been grieving myself, I’ve also been grieving the people I’ve lost to tragedy. 

Friends. Family. People I thought I’d have more time with. They didn’t fade away slowly, they were gone in an instant. Phone calls that changed everything. News that made my stomach drop and my mind refuse to believe it.

Their absence is a hole that nothing can fill, not time, not new memories, not even joy. I miss their voices, their warmth, the way they fit into my life without effort. I miss the casual, ordinary things: a shared meal, a text in the middle of the day, their laughter spilling into a room. I miss the safety of knowing they were out there somewhere in the world.

Losing people and losing yourself are different kinds of grief, but they speak the same language. They both leave you reaching for something you can’t touch anymore. They both create a before and after that can never be undone. And they both make you feel like part of you is buried with what you lost.

Grief doesn’t leave. It changes shape. Some days it’s a sharp pain that stops me in my tracks. Other days, it’s a quiet ache that hums in the background. And every once in a while, it softens enough for me to feel the love beneath it, the reason the loss hurts so much in the first place.

I’m learning that grief isn’t just about death. It’s about love. It’s about connection. It’s about every piece of life we’ve had to let go of before we were ready. And maybe the bravest thing we can do is keep living, not despite the grief, but alongside it.

Because at the end of the day, I am still here. Changed. Scarred. Heavier with loss. But still here. And maybe that’s the real story, not that I’ve “overcome” the grief, but that I’ve made a home for it.