Welcome to this special edition Letters to Grief link-up!

I’m so glad you’re here!

Writing about grief can be awkward on many levels. For one, it is a deep, multifaceted emotion, and sharing about it can leave one feeling vulnerable and exposed. Secondly, while I want people to be able to relate to my words, I also feel a deep sadness within when they actually can relate, because it means they have also been acquainted with grief.

So, I want you to be able to relate, and I don’t. I want you to find comfort here, but I also wish you had know idea what I’m talking about when I write about grief.

There is something about writing a letter to someone that just brings a sense of release and satisfaction — which is why I’m inviting you to write your own letter to grief as well.

Your letter can be as long or as short as you’d like it to be.

If you decide to participate and you’re willing to share your words, you can do so either by linking up your own blog post via the blue inLinkz button at the bottom of this post, or by cutting and pasting your letter into the comments section.

Thank you in advance for opening up and sharing what you have to say to our mutual friend, Grief.


Here’s an excerpt from my e-book, Letters to Grief:

Dear Grief,

Having a relationship with you is a lot like being a parent.

For some, awareness of you begins early, with several months to bear before you’re officially born. You’re there, but largely unseen; expected, waited for, anticipated with a complex fear of the unknown.

Our abdomens swell in your presence, skin stretched and pulled tight in discomfort. You make it hard to move, and we’re eager to be delivered of you. Sleep is elusive in your presence, and we shift with great effort from side to side and feel you squirm and twist awake inside of us. You bring aches and pains that we’ve never known, and we labor hard and breathless when you suddenly contract in sharp pangs.

For others, you come suddenly, uninvited, like an abandoned baby left on a doorstep in the middle of the night. We wake up to the responsibility of you, and take you in without a choice.

Either way, whether expected or not, you arrive, and we have no idea what to do with you. Like parents of a newborn baby, we fumble around through sleepless nights like zombies living an out-of-body experience. You cry out to us in the midnight hour with your longing to be fed. Just when we think we’ve figured out your routine, you change your patterns, throw a tantrum, learn a new trick. You grow into new phases, develop and change with the pages on the calendar. You clamber underfoot, tugging on pant legs until we trip over you, scold you, and apologize.


Image by Katie Reid, echoesofmyheart.com, Twitter: @ImprintsKatie

Image by Katie Reid, echoesofmyheart.com, Twitter: @ImprintsKatie


Unlike the blessing of children, you hold no joy. And until we enter glory, you never move out. We’re stuck with you, bound to you as a lifelong guardian well beyond the point when you reach maturity.

We wish you would grow up and leave the house, and we long to cling to you and embrace you at the same time. We grow impatient with you one minute, and hold you close in the next. We don’t want you to leave, for that would mean that you’ve moved on. That we’ve moved on. That the cause of you has been forgotten. We don’t want to forget the birth, yet we dread feeling the intense pain of labor.

We wish only for the good and not the bad. The easy, not the hard. But you teach us that “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Romans 5:3b-4) So we “rejoice in our sufferings,” for “hope does not disappoint us” (Romans 5:3, 5).

Though you may disappoint us like a wayward, disobedient child, hope never will. So we cling to “this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (Heb. 6:19).

And we wait.

Though rest escapes us now, a day is coming when we’ll enter our forever rest, without your incessant interruptions. You may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.


This post is in conjunction with the launch of my e-book, Letters to Grief, which is now available on Amazon.

Disclosure: This post contains affiliate links to Amazon.

Share your own letter to grief either by adding your post to the inLinkz linkup, or in the comments below.

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