The Shape of Grief
By Amaal Zaki
You see it in small, ordinary moments. The neighbour pauses mid-step while watering their garden, a sudden tear tracing down their cheek. In the office, a coworker avoids the break room, staring at the floor when someone tries to make conversation. A friend who once called every day now takes weeks to reply, if at all. A parent wipes away tears in the middle of the supermarket, juggling groceries with shaking hands. In a cafe, a stranger flinches at the sound of a child laughing. On the train, someone grips the railing, shoulders tight, eyes distant. Grief is in all of it, moving quietly but insistently through the world, shaping lives in ways you cannot predict.
It can arrive slowly, creeping through rooms like a shadow, or hit suddenly, a wave knocking us off balance without warning. People you thought you knew can change overnight. The person who always had a sharp word may soften, showing care that feels almost foreign. The one who carried joy and laughter in every room may retreat into silence, wrapped in something you cannot reach. Loud voices can grow quiet, the busiest hands still. These shifts are the ways grief reshapes what it touches.
Grief does not respect routines or plans. It can appear in the middle of a sunny morning, in the hum of traffic, while making a cup of tea, or in the rhythm of a regular jog. It bends ordinary life into something strange, even for those who have faced loss before. A bus driver hesitates at a stop, remembering someone gone. A cashier falters scanning groceries, a tremor in their voice. A student stares at a textbook without comprehension, lost in the absence of someone beloved. The familiar becomes unfamiliar. The world feels heavier, smaller, or too big all at once.
I have watched it unfold in families, in strangers, in friends. Some move to new spaces, seeking solitude to process loss. Others throw themselves into gatherings, laughter, and work, refusing to let the pain show. Some reach out to others, offering care and support they might never have offered before. Each response is different. Grief does not follow a manual.
This is the world grief shapes before you even notice its effect on yourself. Then, it reaches you. For me, it came as a wave I could not escape. Outgoing and talkative, I sank into silence, retreating within myself. The sadness was not just something I felt, it became a physical weight, pressing on my chest, filling every empty space. Life became unclear. I could not see forward.
Even as my own story unfolded, I could see the many other ways grief moves through lives. Some emerge from loss with a new capacity for love, a willingness to embrace the fleeting beauty of life. Others are pulled inward, carrying the weight silently, appearing distant even to those who care the most. The difference does not make one right or wrong. It makes grief something vast, unpredictable, and deeply personal.
Grief is not just sadness. When someone close dies, the roles we played, the routines we relied on, even the plans we made for the future can vanish or shift without warning. Loss can pull pieces of identity away, leaving us to figure out how to exist in the spaces left behind.
How someone processes emotions can shape the way grief unfolds. Some speak openly about loss, seeking connection and comfort in the presence of others. They talk late into the night, write letters, revisit memories, and in doing so, reshape absence into something they can live alongside. Others manage grief privately, moving quietly through rooms, speaking little, their thoughts inward, almost hidden. These private responses can seem distant or puzzling, but they are just as real and necessary.
Grief can make emotions feel larger and more immediate than usual. Ordinary events can trigger intense reactions. A song on the radio, a scent, a familiar street corner, a photograph; anything can summon a wave of loss. That is why the same death can push one person toward connection and kindness while causing another to withdraw completely. The outward expression does not measure the depth of the feeling inside.
Grief can feel like it breaks you apart, but it also forces you to rebuild. The person you were before loss does not disappear. Parts of that self remain, while new parts appear. Identity is not fixed. It is shaped and reshaped by every experience we go through, with grief among the most profound influences.
This reshaping can be gradual and gentle, or sudden and intense, like an earthquake of emotions that leaves you unsteady. You may question who you are without the person you lost, or discover strengths, feelings, and capacities you never knew existed.
Sometimes grief reveals what we value most. The quiet moments, a shared cup of tea, a walk in a park, or a conversation that lingers longer than usual can take on new meaning. We notice what we once overlooked. We begin to understand what matters, what sustains us, and what we might need to protect and nurture in ourselves and others.
If you notice changes in yourself or someone else after loss, try to hold space for those shifts without rushing to judge them. Grief does not come with a rulebook or a timeline, and there is no right way to change. The transformations, sudden or subtle, are part of our response to loss.
What matters most is allowing yourself, or others, the permission to be exactly where you are, even if that means becoming someone different for a while. Grief can reveal parts of yourself you never knew existed. It can teach unexpected lessons in empathy, patience, and appreciation, though these lessons often arrive amid discomfort, confusion, and fatigue.
Some days will be harder than others. Whatever you feel, however you react, it is okay. Be gentle with yourself as you move through the changes. Remember that grief is not linear, and your experience is valid, no matter how it looks from the outside. In time, the reshaping of identity, though challenging, can bring unexpected clarity and resilience, even when the loss itself remains.
About the Author
Amaal Zaki (Ama) is an Irish writer whose work spans nonfiction and fiction, including personal essays, cultural commentary, and narrative storytelling, exploring themes of grief, healing, sex, power, and the politics of being heard. She recently completed a memoir and a fiction novelette and is actively seeking publication.
Her writing has appeared in Grief Digest, Village Magazine, Mad in Ireland, and Mad in America.
Discover more about Ama and her work here: linktr.ee/Iamama2025
IG: @that_ama_
