Grief Is Not the End: Reflections on Love, Loss, and Continuity

There is a photograph of me as a child, held in my father’s arms at what must have been a wedding. My mother is close by, no doubt making sure I have eaten. It’s a simple image, yet it reflects the cycle of life. What they once did for me, I now do for my children.

The Fabric of Memory

My parents’ love often showed itself in small acts. My father playing cricket with me in the alleyway. My mother bent over her embroidery in the Midlands. Their shared laughter, their resilience against family politics, their determination to push forward.

One of my earliest memories of my father still makes me smile. A circus was in town, and he had taken me to the bumper cars. Each time the ride ended, I waited patiently for my turn, only to be pushed aside as other children rushed ahead. After the third time, my father, probably both agitated by the chaos and concerned for my sense of self and confidence, grabbed my hand, pulled me firmly to a car, and sat me down. “You have to make it,” he told me, before calmly walking off to the sidelines. Looking back, I see the lesson in it.

My mother’s lessons were equally strong and just as lasting. She always wanted me to write, reading my poetry with pride, watching my brief TV stint with enthusiasm, and sharing it among friends, through to listening to my podcasts with joy. She was entrepreneurial, with a heart; her ambitions were always about making a difference, not just making a living. She even took me with her to the Middle East when she was invited to speak at a conference, showing me by example what it meant to live with courage and conviction.

And then there were the small gestures of love: her pressing the extra mango slice into my hand. I would protest, insisting we should share everything equally, but she would smile and say, “Just take this one.” Even in something so simple, she gave the best of what she had, as if to say love is not about keeping score, it’s about giving freely.

She also pushed me towards music. It was my mum who took me across Birmingham, into museums and events, carrying my tabla so I could perform. She believed in my creativity before I did, and she created the space for it to grow. Looking back, I see how much of who I am now was seeded by her encouragement.

The Two Journeys of Loss

The griefs were different. When my father passed, I felt his guidance continue. Speaking to him in silence, I would sense answers, as if his presence remained but on another plane. Almost a higher version of him that could see beyond the comic affair of family dynamics.

With my mother, her journey had been long in the making. Years earlier, after a health scare, she confided that she had glimpsed the next voyage. She had, in many ways, already made her peace with death. But the circumstances leading up to her passing were anything but peaceful. She carried stresses no one should ever have endured, pressures and conflicts, including those within the family, that weighed heavily on her final years. The strain was incomprehensible, especially given where those stresses came from.

And yet, despite it all, she bore it with dignity. When her time came, it was peaceful, not because the world around her made it easy, but because she had found that peace within herself. That, perhaps, is her greatest lesson to me: that even in the midst of conflict, it is possible to meet it head-on with grace. She, like my father, is a remarkable soul.

Meaning Beyond Death

I miss them both, and always will. But I no longer see death as an end. It is not the full stop we imagine, but a continuation, a transition into something greater. My parents remain merged into their highest selves, still guiding, still present.

Grief, I’ve learned, is not just sorrow. It is a teacher. It asks us to reflect, to face our own journeys, to dig deeper into meaning. Society often expects despair to be worn like a badge of honour. But when you know you were loved, and that love continues beyond form, grief becomes less of a weight and more of a reminder: that life always circles back to love.

I am grateful. Grateful that I was loved by them, and that I loved them. That is a privilege not everyone knows. As my family grows, they live within us, in gestures, values, laughter, and resilience.

We do not lose our parents. We simply learn to carry them differently within us, around us, and in the quiet guidance of love that never ends.

I write this, as I understand that I am part of a generation that will witness loss more now; age has a way of giving the same template to all. But there is hope. My experiences may be unique to me, but they do bear with them the same emphasis on life. Life is longing to be lived despite the continued voyage of those we hold dear.

I know this journey of mine will continue, and there are undoubtedly waves of emotions that may or may not emerge. There are bouts of anger that I will hold against those who should have known better, but equally laughter in the cosmic play in it all. I love my parents beyond the DNA connection of being my parents, but more so for the human beings they were.

Recently, when I was in Uruguay, weeks after my mother’s passing and funeral, I had a vision of her in the early morning. She was standing over her body, smiling, and a beautiful white light opened up. Cosmic in its appearance, she walked through. I believe what I saw was real. I have had many experiences before of things similar. I guess it goes to show that, in the space between the noise, we get glimpses of the universe around us, maybe they come as fragments of hope or a message that all will be good in the end.