Grief: The Unsolvable Puzzle That Breaks Your Heart
By Amaal Zaki (Ama)
Grief has always been a mystery to me, a puzzle I never learned how to solve, no matter how much I wished I could. My first true encounter came with my grandmother's passing. I was very young, still in school, and I couldn't grasp why someone so kind, so full of love, would simply vanish. The pain felt like a knife, carving my heart in two. Every night, I dreamt of her, pleading for her not to leave me alone.
An unbearable ache settled in my chest. Breathing became difficult, and each day felt heavy with the absence of her presence. She was the only one in my family who offered consistent kindness, and her death left an unfillable void. I had no idea how to cope, only that I missed her, constantly.
Then grief returned with the death of my brother. He was born unwell, battling his health for his entire year of life. His breathing was labored, and a continuous cough, a sound that haunted every moment he lived, was a constant companion. Watching him fight for survival, day after day, was heartbreaking in a way words can scarcely convey. We never had the chance to forge a brother and sister relationship; his brief life was marked by suffering.
When he died, my heart shattered further. I couldn't comprehend it. Why him? What had he done to deserve such pain? Why would life bring him here only to snatch him away so swiftly? For so long after his death, I clung to the hope it was all a nightmare, a cruel illusion from which I would awaken. I kept questioning why God would grant him life only to take it so quickly.
Years later, grief visited again, this time with my father’s death. Our relationship had been largely absent, yet his passing still devastated me. The loss wasn't solely about the man himself; it was the death of hope: hope for a relationship, for a father figure, for connection. For three years, I grieved him profoundly. The burden was so immense it even led me to fail a year of college, a setback I’d never experienced before.
But grief isn't only about those who have died. There is a different kind of pain, equally confusing: the grief for people who are still alive but gone from your life forever. This includes relationships that ended without closure, friendships severed by betrayal and silence, or an ex who walked away on bad terms, leaving behind the echo of what could have been. You grieve the loss of connection, the dreams and conversations that will never happen, the absence of someone who is physically present somewhere else but unreachable to your heart.
What I've come to understand is this: grief breaks your heart because you miss the person. You know you can never see them again, never touch them again, never hear their voice again. Simply grasping that truth, the absolute finality of it all, is something I've never been able to fully accept.
And grief extends beyond family. I grieve when an actor I admire passes away. I watch their films, aware they are gone, and that same ache returns. I grieve people I met only once, strangers who have left this world. It’s as if I grieve anyone who is simply gone, and whom I will never see again. That unending missing, that impossible acceptance, is a burden I carry daily.
No matter the closeness of the bond or the brevity of the connection, grief breaks your heart. Some days you pretend you're fine. Other days, tears fall without warning. And the hardest truth is that you must live with the knowledge they are gone forever.
Grief isn't something you ever fully understand or overcome. It's a weight you carry, a shadow in your soul. And yet, somehow, you keep going.
About the Author
Ama is the pen name of Amaal Zaki, an Egyptian writer who has lived in Ireland since 2012 and is now an Irish citizen. Her work spans personal essays, cultural commentary, and narrative nonfiction, exploring themes like grief, healing, ADHD, sex, power, and the politics of being heard. Her essays are currently under editorial review at The Atlantic, The New York Times, HuffPost, Literary Hub, The Cut, and others. She recently completed a memoir and is actively seeking publication.
