Grief. It F*cking Sucks.

Grief. It f*cking sucks. The so-called "5 stages of grief"—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—are often mentioned as a guide. But for me? They’re all one. Grief is denial. It’s anger. It’s bargaining, sadness, numbness, and a blur. There's no neat structure or rule to follow. We grow up learning that everything has an explanation, but losing someone we love? That doesn't come with a manual. The stages feel hollow when faced with real loss.

I lost my grandpa two months ago. My twin flame. I was his mini-me, a smaller version of him in so many ways. How do you cope when those "stages" mean nothing? Most days, I feel anger—why cancer, why him, why so quickly without warning? Without the chance to say goodbye. But how could I ever say goodbye to someone so embedded in my soul? His departure feels like an unspeakable injustice, and the void it left remains, just like that weird little mole on my right hand that we both shared. Just like every pint I have, every snarky comment I make—he is there. My art, my humor, my attitude, my posture... I see him in all of it. I am part of him, his soul still lingers in me.

Denial is the most persistent. I still scroll through our old messages, still believing that when I come home, he’ll be there. There are days I don’t cry, because in my head, none of this really happened. How could it? Losing him seems impossible. But life goes on, doesn’t it? Even when we’re not ready.

Then comes the bargaining, that tug of wishing things could be different. When Novak Djokovic won his first gold medal days after Grandpa passed, it felt like a punch to the gut. Grandpa was his biggest fan, never missing a match, living and breathing every point. That gold medal was for Serbia, yes—but it felt like a missed moment for him. In my mind, I could hear Grandpa sarcastically scolding Djokovic, “Did I really have to die for you to win, you idiot?”

As for acceptance, I don’t know it. I doubt I ever will. Can you ever truly accept never hearing their laugh again? Never seeing them, never speaking to them? We get used to it, sure. We learn to live around the gaping hole, but do we accept it? Not really. Especially when someone like my grandpa leaves—a man so unique, a contradiction of traits: cold yet deeply emotional, talented yet humble, funny yet harsh, friendly yet a loner. You had to truly know him to understand him. I’m still trying to know him, in ways I never did before.

I’ve grown closer to his best friend of 30 plus years, Misa, since his passing. Misa, a man with eight tumors and still going strong, visits Grandpa’s grave and shares a pint with him as if he were still there. We talk more now, call and text, and I’m hoping he’s there when I return home this winter. Misa doesn’t believe in the "5 stages" either. For us, grief is one big blur—a continuous tear you can’t quite wipe away. We miss, we ache, in ways we didn’t think possible. But here’s what grief has taught me: it also brings people together.

Misa and I have become each other's support system. We both wish Grandpa could see how close we’ve become. Maybe that’s the unexpected gift grief leaves us—the deep care for someone else our loved one cherished. But why, I wonder, does it take losing someone to remember the importance of spending time with those still here? Why do we wait until it’s too late to stop, disconnect from our phones, step away from the busyness of life, and truly connect with each other?

Grief is a blur. It’s everything and nothing, dark yet somehow light, heavy yet filled with warmth. It rushes in, fast and overwhelming, yet lingers for an eternity. It’s a blur of emotions—anger, sadness, love, regret—flooding in, then leaving us numb and empty. There are no 5 stages, just waves of thought, love, and pain intertwined. Grief is an enigma.

As I finish writing this, I can’t help but think of a song Grandpa loved (Ko Te Ima, Taj Te Nema). Its lyrics remind us of something crucial, something we often forget in our busy, smartphone-driven lives:

"Who has you, doesn’t have you,

Who doesn’t have you, dreams of you,

Who dreams of you, kisses you, 

But you don’t know anything about it."

This, I think, is what grief teaches us. We’re so absorbed in our work, studies, and endless scrolling that we forget the most important thing: to spend time with each other, to connect, to be present. Grief reminds us, in its blurry, painful way, to pause. To cherish those around us before it’s too late.