Most often we can’t tell when other people are grieving. The driver of the car ahead of you in traffic may have just lost their father. Your grocery store cashier’s mom may have just died. Grief is a process, and there are grievers all around us and among us, each at different checkpoints along this journey. On days when I’ve been exhausted and frustrated, with nothing left to give to myself or to my family, I’ve asked the universe when does grief end. But grief is a long haul, and we are on this voyage whether we want to be or not.

My mom died three years ago, and since losing her I’ve thought a lot about the five stages of grief–denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The first four of those stages came at me immediately and all at once, one massive tsunami wave of feelings crashed down. There were more waves immediately behind the first, and they were relentless, with little to no space between to breathe or think or process.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt acceptance about my mother’s death. I suppose I question the definition of acceptance. I can accept that she is no longer physically alive. We had a funeral. She does not text me to ask what I’m making for dinner. She doesn’t sing Beatles songs in the kitchen anymore. I haven’t received a card in the mail signed Love, Momma xoxo in quite some time, but I haven’t accepted her death. I am not okay with it. I haven’t moved on.

There are still plenty of days when the hard, grieving feelings bubble up and I desperately wish I could have her back. As in, I might actually squeeze my eyes shut and wish on a star like a child, willing her back with my mind, and then turn around and stare at the door as if she might come walking through it, only to remember that obviously this isn’t possible. She isn’t coming back. And then I am hurt all over again. No, I do not think I have reached acceptance.

In my early days of the rawest grief I wondered when my grief would end. If it would end. I was certain I would always feel horrible and would never be happy again. Ever. To feel anything but utterly destroyed would be a betrayal of my mom and my love for her. This is early grief. The intense days and nights. The acute phase.

I can’t tell you how long you will feel this way, and you may not believe me now, but I can tell you that it changes. I do not promise an end, but I can reasonably assure you that things will shift and change. For me things didn’t necessarily get better. They got different.

This pandemic has reinforced for me just how hard it is to keep doing something difficult without being able to see the end in sight. Grief is this way, too. We can’t see the end. At some point we begin looking for the end. We want to see that light at the end of the tunnel. We want to feel some happiness again, even though we still may feel guilty for feeling happy or wanting happiness.

At least for me, there is no end. My mother died, and that loss is forever. I will never be done with grief. I think that ends up stunning people, when they realize that this new way of being on some level is forever. The loss of your parent will always be with you, and you will, likely reluctantly, be reshaped as you move through your grief, as it sinks in, puts down roots, and settles in your heart. We are forced to learn how to be in this new world, and our resistance to this change is part of grief.

I don’t want to grieve. Grief is uncomfortable. Grief is inconvenient. In the beginning it is so unfamiliar. There are days I just don’t want to feel it. Grief has made me panic. It’s taken away my breath.

Grief is also my new friend. It is my new place, where I live each day. My mom is here, too. Grief is part of our new relationship. My grief is my love for her, and that love isn’t going to end simply because she isn’t in New York anymore and isn’t coming to visit for my birthday this year. My grief and my love are fused together. I cannot have one without the other, and so for me there is no end in sight. I will accept that much.