Grief, Identity & Ambiguous Loss
For when the hardest part isn't what you lost - it's learning who you are now that it's gone.
The idea at the center of this
You can lose someone who is still here
There's a term for a particular kind of grief: ambiguous loss, developed by family therapist Dr. Pauline Boss. It's the grief of someone who is physically present but psychologically changed or of losing a version of yourself while your body is still standing in the room.
There's no funeral for this kind of loss. No casserole. No socially accepted process for mourning a person who is still alive. Which might be exactly why it can feel so lonely - because often, no one names it. Sometimes not even the person living it.
If you've lost a "before" version of yourself, or you're loving someone who has, this is a name for what you're carrying.
What it can look like
A brain injury, concussion, or Persistent Post-Concussion Syndrome
Dysautonomia, POTS, or another chronic illness with no clear ending
A fracture, surgery, or injury that changed how your body moves through the world
Any change that left you standing in your own life, wondering who you are now
A small story
I was standing in my kitchen holding a bag of potatoes, staring at a pot of water on the stove. Something I'd done hundreds of times before. Something so simple it never required thought.
And yet, I couldn't remember what to do next.
It wasn't about the potatoes. It was the realization that something ordinary was no longer accessible in the way it once had been.
For a long time, I thought I was grieving my health. My independence. What I was actually grieving was me - the woman I'd known for thirty-eight years, the one I expected to wake up as every morning.
There was no funeral for her. Just the quiet ache of learning who I'd become.
The fuel tank
One of the clearest ways I've found to explain this experience is through a fuel tank.
Before, I woke up every morning with a full tank and reserve fuel if I needed it. Today, my tank is smaller and empties faster. I still want to do many of the same things. I simply don't have the same fuel available to do them.
The hardest part wasn't accepting the smaller tank. It was accepting that I couldn't drive the same route anymore.
If you're the one living it
You don't have to rush your becoming. You don't have to understand it all yet. You don't have to turn this into a lesson on anyone else's timeline.
A few things that helped me:
- Redefining productivity - sometimes it means recognizing your limits before your body forces you to
- Learning that saying no to something you want isn't weakness, it's self-respect
- Understanding that accepting help doesn't undo your independence - it never did
If you love someone going through it
You can't support a need you don't know exists. If the person you love hasn't found words for what's happening yet, that's not a failure on either side - some things take years to name.
What tends to help:
- Believing them, even when there's no visible proof
- Learning to hear what they're trying to say, even when the words won't come
- Understanding that "I need to leave early" or "I need this quieter" is not rejection - it's someone learning to advocate for a body or brain that works differently now
Where to go deeper
This page only scratches the surface. My book, From Ashes to Wings, and my chapter in an upcoming collaborative book, both explore ambiguous loss, the long middle, and the ongoing work of becoming in more depth.
Learn more about these books →
(Ashes to Wings is available now, Collaborative book will be available later this year)
Nothing you've walked through is wasted. Even the hardest chapters have helped shape who you are today.
You are not broken. You are becoming.